The Dead Fencers' Society
by Come Hither Ashes
Summary: Take a trip through 21st Century London town and see what mischief the Musketeers' boys can get up to in their third year of university. There's the college newspaper to think about, their degrees to study for, a new club to start, and amidst it all a bond of friendship that could be the kindling to a roaring fire that might consume them whole. [Eventual OT3.]
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Over a month ago I started drafting a new fic, based off of my favourite group of boys, my favourite place in the world, and one of my favourite films of all time. That film is _'Dead Poets' Society'_. Each chapter is inspired by a Rat Pack song, is littered with Britishisms (which I'll gladly explain), and follows Athos' adventures with his two best friends - if only Athos could tell them _exactly _what sort of adventures he dreams about.

This fic is a labour of love, encouraged by my beloved betas SirLancelotTheBrave and WizzKiz, and posted in honour of that brilliant man, Robin Williams. I hope you like it!

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king.  
I've been up and down and over and out, and I know one thing;  
Each time I find myself flat on my face,  
I pick myself up and get back in the race."

- Frank Sinatra, '_That's Life_'

* * *

"This is an all stations, Piccadilly line train," the disjointed female voice said over the tannoy. "Next stop: Hounslow West."

Athos mouthed the familiar words and let his head tip back onto the chair, the sounds of clattering tracks and roaring tunnels in his ears. There was something unholy in how he had a thin scarf wound tight around his neck and yet he was still freezing.

He flicked his music onto shuffle and snorted contemptuously when Frank Sinatra's '_That's Life_' came on.

Frank didn't know the half of it. Life had an alarming tendency to trip him up just when he thought he was coping, it was ferociously unfair.

Outside of his window, London loomed, a sleeping beast on the verge of a winter's dawn. It was grey, and dark, and cold, but it felt like more of a home than the house he had left that morning.

"This is: Hounslow East. Next stop: Osterley."

He'd been up since 5am, and that was Paris time. Now, back in England, it felt as if he had been awake for far too long already.

Not that anyone had noticed him leaving; his parents had been very aware of what time his plane was, but the sprawling house had been silent. Only the gardener had paid him any heed, their fogged breaths twirling in the frigid air as they nodded at each other over the frosted grass.

It was no more of a going away party than he had expected.

"This is: Boston Manor. Next stop: Northfields."

He closed his eyes and hunkered down further in his uncomfortable, scratchy, ridiculously reassuring, Underground train seat.

His parents had never forgiven him for choosing an English university – to be honest, they had never forgiven him for a myriad of things, none of which he felt deserved such an acerbic reaction. His dreams were so much stomping material to them.

Life was bitter as well as unfair, Frank.

But this was his way of picking himself up after falling flat on his face; England had been his new start, his new dream, his last chance.

He wouldn't be missed, not by his parents, not by Paris, not by the gardener, not by anyone.

"This is: South Ealing. Next stop: Acton-"

There was a commotion by the door, the sound of panting breaths and scraping bags. Athos frowned behind his closed eyelids, no one ever used the end carriages this early in the morning – it was why he liked them so much.

Someone sat down right next to him. In an empty carriage. At an outrageously early time.

They were warm and smelled like sandalwood.

It was the exact same scent that he had spent hours hunting for last Christmas.

"You know, they say 'mind the gap' for a reason, Porthos."

The low chuckle of a response was the first sincere thing he had heard in over three months. He smiled without opening his eyes, unable to restrain the burst of joy in his stomach, at the feeling of being able to _fly_ after having his wings clipped for so long.

All morning he had felt adrift, in between homes, and suddenly he felt anchored to something steady. He shifted slightly, his shoulder leaning heavier on Porthos' broad one. "This is early for you, _mon ami_."

The pet name dropped from his mouth without him meaning to say it. He was still straddling the mental border between London and Paris, but he knew where he wanted to be, who he wanted to be with.

On one side was the clutching blackness of his past, sharp turns, jagged metal, and the seductive scent of night-blooming flowers. On the other was the person he had _become_; yes, that person was slightly – who was he kidding, _very_ – damaged, but he had started healing here.

Heal what the best doctors in Paris could not.

"Yeah, well, knew you'd be in Heathrow at shit o'clock," Porthos laughed unabashedly, confirming the theory that he had deliberately searched the furthest, emptiest carriage for him.

His misanthropic nature was getting far too predictable.

He opened his eyes to meet Porthos' darker ones, and felt his chest twist in a way that shouldn't have been so familiar. Porthos had a grin that was at once friendly and dirty, as if he was considering hugging you but might bite your throat whilst he had you at his mercy.

The joy that had gripped his stomach sparked treacherously into something entirely unwanted and chased away any memories of cold hallways and bitter goodbyes.

"Why were you back at Ealing?" he asked hoarsely, and mentally chanted the word _idiot _at himself.

Only idiots looked at one of their best friends for the first time in three months and immediately forgot every single promise that they had made themselves over the summer, almost forgot why _that_ could never happen.

Porthos shrugged, a movement of rippling muscle under his threadbare white t-shirt. "They had a space open and I wanted to be closer to Uni."

Athos forced his attention onto the words; it was easier to focus on their easy friendship than the whirling miasma of emotions roiling in his head.

It was always easier to focus on that, that was the problem; he was too good at running away.

Porthos lived in halfway homes during the holidays, saving every single penny he could for when his government grant kicked in for the semester. As an orphan born and bred in London, he was a kid of the state, but his aptitude for criminal psychology had garnered him a place in one of the city's best universities.

They had met on this exact train two years ago, when Athos had foolishly brought all of his luggage with him. Porthos had watched him struggle for a bit, evidently torn between breaking the indomitable rules of the Underground and courtesy, before shouldering two bags and striking up a conversation.

He had been too shocked to do anything but reply numbly, "Yes, I'm enrolled at Musketeers College, too."

That was the first time he had seen Porthos' insanely endearing grin, and the first time he had hidden a part of himself that he hadn't known existed – and still didn't know how to deal with.

Porthos offered him a piece of gum, not even noticing the way he twitched when their fingers brushed. It had been too long; he had forgotten what a kick to the system Porthos could be, with his muscled legs clad in black-denim stretched out in front of him and some black boots that had seen better days.

Porthos was an ebony statue with the rough edges displayed proudly, like a sculptor who wanted his art to be seen in its _entirety, _not just the individual pieces.

God, he was such an idiot.

"Did Aramis write to you?" Porthos asked, breaking into his dangerously loud thoughts.

"Of course he did, copiously," he replied, thankful to fall back into his usual dry tone. "In fact, I told him to make any postage payable to me and he took that as an opportunity to send me huge boxes of sweets."

Porthos' chuckled. "You know he worries you won't eat enough without him there to bug you."

He smiled wryly, affection managing to soothe the raging storm in his chest. Those letters had been like bursts of light in the dreariness of his summer, and the packages like glorious fireworks.

He had lunched on lobster and caviar, but those tiny, almost-stale chocolates had somehow tasted infinitely better.

"Did he write to you, too?"

"'Course, how d'you think I knew you were comin' today?"

"You're meant to use your degree to capture criminals, not learn how to stalk me," he murmured archly, but felt his lip twitch when Porthos just raised an eyebrow at him.

"You can talk, Monsieur English," Porthos taunted, and Athos winced at the ridiculous nickname and Porthos' awful attempts at a French accent. "Your emails were non-existent."

"I'll have you know the word you were looking for is _sporadic,_" he said haughtily, but the effect was lost when Porthos snorted and mimicked him. "What did you want my emails for, anyway? Aramis' letters are like novels."

Porthos looked at him strangely then, a slight furrowing to his brow that Athos itched to reach out and smooth, but kept himself firmly in check. As he always did.

"Like to know you're doin' alright, 's'all," Porthos said it as if it was obvious, and it was, it should have been.

He had forgotten what it was like to be with people that actually cared and weren't just acting on some facsimile of emotion.

He felt the wall around his heart start to shudder, but he had built it the moment he had waved goodbye to his best friends and it was proving difficult to rip down again.

It had taken a beating this summer, too often had he seen cold, empty smiles and compared them to the bright, happy ones of Porthos and Aramis, and found his life _wanting._

Honestly, he was already wanting too damn much.

When they finally got to their station, he was glad that Porthos was there. It would have felt too strange to walk onto campus without him by his side.

It occurred to him that Porthos and Aramis had known that.

He blinked stupidly at Porthos' broad back, at the bedraggled Nike bag with Porthos' few favoured possessions in, and realised that for all of his life's problems, he had two of the best friends in the entire world.

Aramis and Porthos were the ones who picked him up, put him back on his feet – sometimes literally. He couldn't be flung over Porthos' shoulder like Aramis could, but they had propped him up and ferried him home more times than he could count.

"Is Aramis already there?" he asked when they had broken into the blinding whiteness of a winter morning. London blared at him, all beautiful buildings and black cabs, a cacophony of noise even in the bizarre serenity of the moment.

Trees dotted the roads, little flashes of green amidst the grey. Porthos' fingers reached out to brush the bark as they walked down the street. "Yeah, he's got our rooms ready, said your microwave's still there."

He made a noise of surprise, he had thought that it would have been confiscated by now – they weren't supposed to have personal appliances. That hadn't stopped them from creating a kitchenette in his room, of course.

Why they insisted on using his room, he had no idea. Sometimes one of them would want to use something and then just end up lounging on his bed and watching television.

Really, he couldn't even call himself anti-social anymore, not around those two.

Certainly not when he felt himself smiling at the thought of seeing Aramis and it being the three of them again.

It had been the three of them since the first day of class, when Athos had fallen into a chair next to the most seductive of smiles he had ever seen. If Porthos had been the battering ram to his sensibilities, Aramis was the charismatic king that took up residence in the conquered castle.

The first day of term, and far from learning about Geoffrey Chaucer, he had learned something about himself that, if discovered, would have him cast even further out of his family circle. He already had painful knowledge of his parents' stance on dishonour and it hadn't ended well for Thomas, the brother he had lost.

Now he had to keep everything a secret so that he could keep the brothers he had gained, no matter how tempting a smile could be.

It hadn't helped that Aramis was a flirt of the first water and it had amused him to no end to realise that Athos didn't blink an eye at his charms. Aramis, ever appreciative of a challenge, had decided that they were going to be spending a _lot _of time together after that.

Aramis had claimed – as they walked away from their languages lecture – that anyone who didn't faint under his attention was worthy of it, but although Porthos hadn't fainted, he hadn't exactly been immune, either.

Athos remembered interest sparking in Porthos' gaze when Aramis had recognised him in their dorms that night, and sauntered over with so much sway in his step that it should have been illegal.

Athos had practiced for years to perfect a poker face, a polite smile, a look of boredom. Confronted with one of Aramis' winks, he had called upon every trick he knew to keep his expression unimpressed. Porthos, however, had let his eyes drift from the perfect curls on Aramis' head to the Cuban heel boots that he had spent a fortune on.

But then, Porthos had the freedom to do that.

Neither of them had any idea that desire had kicked him so very hard in the gut when they had started conversing in tones just a mile past flirtatious.

Where Porthos was muscled and broad, Aramis was lean and slender, and they both had smiles that could make the sun shine. They had also settled into a solid friendship tempered with lewd looks and harmless teasing, and dragged him along with them.

They had entered his life quite without his say, and they had no intention of leaving.

It was quite possibly the best thing that had ever happened to him, which was the sole reason he treated their friendship with the reverence Aramis saved for church.

Athos still didn't quite understand it, but they wanted to spend time with him just for being himself.

How could he ever risk that by acting on emotions he didn't even understand, let alone want?

No, he would suffer in silence, revel in their presence, savour the memories, and, when he was alone, play every single sweet smile, soft word, and warm touch, over in his head.

It was safest that way, for all of them.

They were his friends, and that's all they could ever be.

A stone arch passed overhead and then he and Porthos were on the campus proper. The greenery was hidden under a layer of hoarfrost but the weak sunlight made everything glitter brilliantly.

Something coiled and forcefully neutral in his chest unwound, and he took a deep, relaxed breath for the first time in months.

"Good to be back?" Porthos asked with a grin, but there was a streak of fond concern there too.

"You have no idea," he murmured, and let the rightness of this life wash over him. It was completed when Porthos' warm arm hooked around his shoulders, completely uncaring of the instinctive scowl Athos gave for accosting him – because Porthos knew he needed it.

It was perfected when Porthos herded him towards their dorm building and the front door slammed open, a stream of ecstatic Spanish sailing forth.

Suddenly, there were dark curls in his face and the smell of cinnamon – tart and sweet – in his nose. Aramis had ignored his grunt of surprise and thrown himself at them, fitting between he and Porthos perfectly.

He felt whole again, as if the two missing pieces to his life's puzzle had slotted into place.

"Okay, term can begin now," Aramis said, his smile so delighted that Athos couldn't help but laugh. It came straight from his stomach, affectionate and warm and ridiculous.

Porthos chuckled and curled his other arm over Aramis' shoulders, pulling them in for a quick, tight, impromptu hug. It was the three of them again, against the world, and the wall around his heart could finally fall.

He allowed himself this, the sweet torture, and sighed contentedly.

Life was good, sometimes.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you for reading! Want to ask a question, have the boys go somewhere in particular, or perhaps you want to scream at Athos with me? Leave me a review!

The Piccadilly line is the navy blue line on the Underground, and a tannoy is a loudspeaker. Criminal psychology because why not, it may change.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Sometimes trying to escape something, just means you run headlong into something else - or maybe that something runs headlong into you.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"Smile, darn ya, smile,  
You know this great world is a good world after all.  
Smile, darn ya, smile,  
And right away watch Lady Luck pay you a call.  
Things are never black as they are painted,  
Time for you and joy to get acquainted,  
So make life worthwhile.  
Come on and smile, darn ya, smile."

- Sammy Davis Jr, '_Smile, Darn Ya, Smile_'

* * *

Athos stared balefully at the copious bags and boxes that now littered his room. The delivery people had just arrived with his luggage and he was in no mood to unpack. This was his life, able to be squared away, with secrets hidden beneath unassuming cardboard.

It was cluttered, but without Aramis and Porthos in his space, it felt bizarrely empty.

He lifted his head hopefully when he heard a familiar light step in the hallway, and held back his smile when Aramis stopped in the doorway with his mouth agape.

"Why do you bring so much stuff?" he asked in wonder, stepping gingerly through the maze his room had become.

"I don't pack it," he explained with a shrug of his shoulders, "It's whatever the staff think I need."

Aramis raised an eyebrow but, thankfully, didn't delve back into that can of worms. It lingered there, on the windowsill, but it had been opened in their first year and it suited them all to ignore it.

"They think you need a suit?" Aramis asked dubiously holding the bag up and unzipping it carefully. "A _three-piece _suit?"

He made a noise of disgust, but was cut off when Aramis suddenly stepped forward and held the suit against him. Aramis' expression changed, became intensely considering, and his gaze jumped to meet Athos' for the briefest of moments before darting away again.

"I'd kill for a tailored suit," Aramis said instead, the calm words belying the way he blinked a few times as if he was flustered.

Athos frowned, confused, but followed suit and replied calmly, "Take it, we're of a similar size."

Aramis grinned then and shot him a wry look. "Please, there are far better things I would raid your cupboard for." He paused and then clarified, "Well, use your credit card for, I refuse to wear that much black."

"You don't wear _any _black."

Aramis hummed in agreement as he laid the suit bag down carefully and rummaged through another box. "It's too sombre."

"And you are anything but?" he replied automatically, and then mentally smacked himself when he heard his voice lower at the sight of Aramis bending over to reach for something.

_Idiot._

"Was that a compliment?" Aramis asked cheekily, flashing him a smile, which dropped when he pulled out five identical pairs of jeans. "Armani, Athos, isn't the only brand out there."

Grateful for the change of subject and that Aramis hadn't noticed how he had abruptly sat down on the nearest object, which turned out to be another box of what was probably more Armani, he defended, "I don't like change."

"What you don't like, _mon cher, _could fill a whole street of warehouses."

It was hearing his own language on Aramis' tongue that finally roused the small campfire burning in his stomach into an inferno. Aramis was always dropping into other languages – that was his area of study after all – but he only ever used French when he was being affectionate, and Athos secretly adored it.

At any other time, hearing French meant that he was in a bad place, full of spite and nastiness; hearing it in Aramis' silky tones only ever made his stomach clench in desire, not detestation.

Then again, Aramis could make anything sound gorgeous, and the effortless way he switched dialects was ridiculously attractive.

Especially when he did it to tease Porthos, knowing that their friend couldn't understand and Athos could.

Of course, Aramis would switch to Spanish when he was furious – and that should have been annoying, not sexy enough that Athos wanted to hold him close and kiss the anger away.

He blanked his mind and choked on a breath.

"_Change_ is abstract, it doesn't take up space," he corrected habitually and managed a smirk at Aramis' withering glance.

"_Oui, oui, Monsieur Anglais,_" Aramis muttered, managing to make it sound seductive even though he was grumbling, in French.

The words said in a perfect accent whispered through the air and against his skin, like a soft breeze on a hot summer's day, or a gentle wave on a smooth bed of sand, or a brush of beard against his cheek.

Oh Hell, he shouldn't have come back.

The realisation was like a sickening pit in his stomach, and it only confirmed what his parents had told him repeatedly all summer. _England is of no benefit to you, _they had declared disappointedly.

_You will learn bad habits._

Bad habits weren't the half of it.

How long had it taken him for his mental walls to fall? And not the ones he put up to keep their warmth in, but to keep their warmth _out._ The different warmth, the one that bubbled like molten lava in his stomach and slicked languorously through his veins when one of them smiled.

What was _wrong _with him?

They were his best friends and he _couldn't risk that_, and that was before he even contemplated the sickening betrayal of finding them _both _attractive.

What did he think this was, some sort of fantasy story?

Life could never be that easy.

Aramis had found a hat – a beret of all things, as if Athos wanted to look more like a walking French stereotype – and was posing with it in front of the mirror. It sat perfectly on his curls, adding a sense of Parisian charm to his crisp, white shirt.

A shirt that could have only had half the buttons done up, exposing a sinful amount of tan chest and a sprinkling of dark hair that Athos knew with damning clarity trailed down into his tight navy jeans.

"I'm, ah, going out for a bit," he ground out, forcing his gaze away from the sinuous curve of Aramis' body.

"I'm not unpacking for you," Aramis said distractedly, offering him a chance to escape. He took it, and he was halfway down the hallway when he heard, "We need milk!"

What Athos needed was a shower, a cold one.

Preferably of Arctic temperatures.

"Milk!" Porthos yelled.

And milk.

* * *

There was something about the bitter bite of Britain's air that always seemed to clear his head. It nipped with a chill that made his skin prickle, but he drew it in anyway, his lungs burning with each inhaled breath.

He savoured the pain, needing it to drive the thoughts of Aramis turning this way and that in front of his mirror, pouting at himself and winking at Athos when he caught him looking.

Fuck. He was so screwed.

He needed a distraction, and it had to be a good one. The newspaper was time-consuming, but he shared most of his duties with Aramis and Porthos anyway, and it wasn't like he wanted to get away from them.

That was the problem.

Even walking away from their rooms felt strange so soon after seeing them, he felt tugged in twain, as if his brain was working in contrast to his body.

That was the other problem.

He reasoned that everyone had moments where their heart ruled their head, but around those two he suffered more from his head being ruled by something that diverted his blood way too often.

It hadn't always been this way; he'd never even looked at another guy like that before coming here. If this was a bad habit, he'd fucking picked it, and he couldn't drop it, no matter how much he tried.

And he had _tried._

Maybe once term had properly started he'd settle back into the rhythm of work and study. He could even kindle some old flames, the ones he told himself he still fancied. Hell, if it distracted him, he'd consider hooking up with-

He tried to neatly sidestep a buzzing storm of a boy with a bowed head who wasn't looking where he was going, but they ignored him and ploughed into his shoulder regardless.

"Excuse you," he murmured dryly, glad he had at least managed to drop the habit of apologising mechanically. Porthos had teased him mercilessly for that when he had first arrived, and found it endlessly amusing when Athos defended his politeness as common courtesy.

Porthos was a bump-and-glare, and Aramis' smile managed to make people apologise to _him._

It was a skill that Athos envied.

"What did you say?" the boy asked, his head flicking up and something startlingly wrathful in dark eyes framed by long hair that flicked around his thin cheeks. He had the naturally tanned skin of an Italian and the music of it in his voice, even if it was clipped at the moment.

"I believe you miss-stepped."

The boy's frown deepened into one of angry confusion, as if he couldn't tell whether Athos was mocking him or not. It made him look even younger than he was – and he was probably a first year if his over-stuffed rucksack was any indication.

Evidently he didn't appreciate Athos' raised eyebrow – the one that Aramis said he normally deserved a punch for, for looking so superior – and said angrily, "Get out of my way."

Athos lifted his chin, managing to look down his nose despite them being of a similar height – it was one of his many talents. "There's no need to be rude."

"There's no need to be an asshole, fuck off."

"Did your father not teach you any manners?" he sneered at the boy, and didn't like how venomous it sounded.

He sounded like his own father.

The boy's eyelids flickered and then he glared furiously at him, rage a thick haze that seemed to surround them both. There was a snarl of what sounded like pain, and then Athos automatically took a step back when the boy lunged for him.

Years' worth of training responded – along with his ire – when the boy's fist whistled an inch from his nose. He reached out for it and pulled past his hip, sending the boy sprawling onto the tarmac.

Athos winced, he hadn't thought the boy that incapable, it should have only stumbled him. Instead, the boy now had sore palms and scuffs in jeans that looked a little large on his skinny form, as if he had lost weight unexpectedly.

Not even the first day of term and already fighting on campus, wonderful. He was lucky that they were on one of the paths leading around the buildings, hidden from the windows by the chilled trees.

If you could call that _luck._

He sighed and held a hand out to the stunned boy, "You surprised me, I apolo-"

Fingers yanked his wrist but his braced stance meant that he merely swayed, his weight instinctively shifting to his front foot as muscle memory kicked in. "Damn it, stop-"

The boy sprang upwards, still holding his arm in one hand, and smacked him across the cheek with the other. A knuckle caught his jawbone and stung something fierce. Blinking against the pain, he snarled, "_Petit parvenu, arrête! _Stop!"

A stream of angry Italian answered him, and when Athos simply blinked, the boy presumably translated and spat, "You have no right to speak of my father!"

His earlier words floated through his head as he rubbed his jaw and muttered, "It's a saying. I meant no disrespect- well, yes, I did, but-"

He jerked backwards again when the boy swung once more, leaving himself open for Athos to reach in and push his chest.

It was at the exact moment that the boy landed flat on his back that Aramis and Porthos appeared around the corner, their words cutting short when they realised what they were looking at.

"Athos!" Aramis cried, completely scandalised, and completely blaming him without any evidence – honestly, it was if he got into fights every day of the week.

And he didn't.

That was Porthos' role.

"Everythin' alright?" Porthos asked lowly, a threat clear in his tone and the frown he levelled at the downed boy. Porthos, at least, took his side, but then that might just be because he felt like a scrap.

"Fine," he growled, and rolled his eyes when Aramis jumped into 'doctor' mode and ignored him to fall at the boy's side. When Aramis had first volunteered at the Red Cross for first aid lessons, Athos had been grudgingly pleased when he'd later required some stitches for a cut without needing to go to the hospital.

Of course, he should have expected that the same care would be extended to _everyone_.

"Are you alright, did you hit your head?" Aramis' voice was pitched soothingly, and although the boy had stiffened at his quick approach, no one could withstand Aramis' tender concern.

"I'm fine," the boy said with all the wounded pride of youth, but it was lacking the bite of before.

"He punched _me, _I feel I should add," he said, apparently to no one because Aramis was still ignoring him.

The boy threw him a glare over Aramis' slender shoulder that should probably have sent Athos cringing to the floor. Instead, he merely responded with a look of nonchalance.

Porthos saw it and chuckled quietly, "You're not helpin' matters."

"_Vaffanculo, stronzo!" _the boy spat at him, but his eyes widened when Aramis replied in amused – and perfect – Italian.

Aramis was useful to have around – not that he locked horns with different dialects often, but Aramis' friendly nature and charming smile could normally defuse any situation.

This one included, apparently, because they were now talking in rapid back-and-forth Italian, the boy gesturing at him occasionally. There were enough similarities in the Romance languages that he could pick out how he was being painted as the villain of the piece.

"Aramis," he called tiredly, and was shocked into silence when Aramis sent him a truly quelling glance.

Porthos settled at his side and murmured, "You've done it now."

"I don't even know what it was that I did," he replied exasperatedly, and noted with some discomfort that the boy's voice had risen in pitch and started to crack. "Oh Hell, please don't say he's going to cry."

Aramis turned on him with a hissed, "Athos, shut up."

He had to take a step back and bumped into Porthos' chest as his friend whistled in amazement. Athos had to agree, he wasn't sure Aramis had _ever _spoken to him like that, certainly not without a guilty apology afterwards.

What on Earth was going on?

Porthos' hand rested on his shoulder, a warm weight that grounded him. "Know I took the piss before, but I think you'd better start grovellin'."

Athos hadn't grovelled a day in his life, not even when his parents had threatened to strangle his funds whilst he was in England. He didn't _do _grovelling, he had far too much pride-

The boy took a shuddering breath and resolutely looked at the floor; there was a distinct glittering on his long eyelashes.

Oh, Hell.

With a sigh, he walked to Aramis' side and sat on his haunches, guilt an overpowering thing in his chest. "I'm sorry if I offended you, I truly am."

Aramis was an angry presence at his side, refusing to say anything except a quiet, "You have no tact, Athos."

He glanced at his friend in surprise. No tact? He had the most tact of all of them, it was borne of far too many hours rubbing elbows with the elite and always having to watch what he said, what he felt, what he wanted.

Or maybe it was lying he was good at.

Athos opened his mouth to ask a question, and that was when he noticed the red rims around the boy's eyes, the black band of mourning on his arm, the brand-new cross around his neck, and remembered the agonised pronunciation of 'father'.

He could have slapped himself.

No wonder Aramis was furious with him. The boy was grieving for his father and Athos had, albeit without realising, mocked his father's memory and picked a fight.

Sympathy swept through him, heartfelt and terrible. He lifted his hand to clasp the boy's shoulder, offering him the same comfort that Porthos had given him. "My deepest apologies, I did not realise."

"I said it's fine," the boy choked out, the anger trying to rouse but just leaving his voice hoarse and infinitely sad.

Aramis made a helpless, consoling noise, and the boy let himself be tugged upwards into Aramis' arms for a hug. A wet breath wracked his thin frame as Aramis held him tight.

Athos stood and looked back to see Porthos' face twisted in a wince of sympathy, but there was a fond smile there too as he watched Aramis' give comfort in the best way he knew. Hugs, Athos had learned, could fix so many ills that nothing else could.

Aramis and Porthos' hugs especially.

The boy quieted in Aramis' affectionate hold, taking the tactile comfort he offered, and Athos mirrored Porthos' small smile at the sight.

Aramis truly was a marvel.

"Please," Athos murmured, "Let me make it up to you." The boy broke from Aramis' grip to deny him, so he continued swiftly, "Even if it's just a drink, I owe you that much."

"You shouldn't be alone," Aramis said softly, keeping his hands where they were, as if prepared to drag him into another hug at a moment's notice – and he probably was.

Porthos joined them, his grin toned down to a respectable level as he added encouragingly, "C'mon, say yeah. Aramis won't take no for an answer, anyway."

The boy swallowed, looking between them a little vulnerably, but a tiny smile formed when Aramis nodded gravely. His gaze lit on Athos' last, who held out his hand in his own brand of greeting, an apology and acceptance in one.

He knew what it was like to be alone, and who was he to deny the boy of Aramis' friendliness?

The boy's grip was firm, his nod jerky but growing in confidence. His voice was thankfully clear when he finally introduced himself, "D'Artagnan."

They all smiled when Porthos' grin grew brighter as he clapped them on their shoulders. "Welcome to Musketeers College, d'Artagnan."

Athos had a feeling it was going to be an interesting year.

* * *

**Author's Note: **A quick update because new fic excitement, but the next one will go up next Sunday... Maybe Wednesday if I get too excited or the reviews are particularly insistent! D'Artagnan just had to have a feisty entrance laden with angst, oops?

Athos offers d'Artagnan a drink because the legal drinking age is 18 in Britain, which means adorable, tipsy Puppy is going to happen at some point.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **It can be the little stabilities in life that steady us the most, whether they be the smell of coffee in the morning, the feel of fresh newspaper ink on your hands, or simply a smile from the people who hold your heart.

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

"How would you like to be,  
Down by the Seine with me?  
Oh, what I'd give for a moment or two,  
Under the bridges of Paris with you.

Darling, I'd hold you tight,  
Far from the eyes of night,  
Under the bridges of Paris with you.  
I'd make your dreams come true."

- Dean Martin, '_Under the Bridges of Paris_'

* * *

The weather held as they walked two by two under the frosted trees, as if it were holding its breath for something momentous to happen and then the rain would finally fall.

He and Aramis fell back slightly as Porthos started talking to d'Artagnan about some football game on last night – Porthos refused to believe that sports wasn't an essential part in everyone's lives, and they had spent far too many hours arguing over what game they would watch.

Porthos would turn on the football, only for the remote to be snatched from his hand by Aramis who would switch the channel and swoon over the rugby ("Real men, Porthos, like you," he would simper to get Porthos to grin). It was up to Athos to either pick one – whichever one where France were playing – or put something else on altogether.

They had gotten way too good at quiz shows last year, and he fully intended to keep their winners title at the student union this semester.

D'Artagnan's face lit up when he realised that he had found a fellow football enthusiast in Porthos, and Athos had to hide a smile when the pair of them immediately started good-naturedly bickering over teams.

"Gunners all the way, mate, but England'll kick your ass any day of the week, in any league."

D'Artagnan came into his own in his friendly – if a little vitriolic – reply, and Porthos held his hands up in acknowledgement of England's pitiful progress in the World Cup. It was all so much enthusiastic noise to Athos, who had little to no love for the sport, but at least the boy was smiling now.

Aramis glanced at him a little uncertainly, and when Athos raised an eyebrow to prompt him to speak, Aramis darted closer, his presence a warmth along his arm that shouldn't have been so distracting.

Except, of course, Aramis was distraction wrapped in tempting tanned flesh and, damn it, he needed to keep it together, it was the first day back for fuck's sake, _not now._

"Maybe you have _some_ tact," Aramis whispered in his ear. It caused a little tingle along his spine even as he felt a weight lift from his chest at Aramis' smile. Aramis was quick to anger and quick to forgive, and Athos wasn't sure he could ever hold a grudge against that staggering smile.

"Is that an apology for being cruel to me?"

"I wasn't being _cruel; _I was simply worried for d'Artagnan's sake."

"Ah, yes, because I am known for kicking puppies and starting fights, is that it?"

Aramis tried to give him an unimpressed look but it was ruined by the amusement that danced in his brown eyes. "Just because sarcasm suits you very well, _mon cher, _doesn't mean you should engage in it."

If Athos had been Porthos in this moment, he would have hooked an arm around Aramis' shoulder and dragged him closer, brushing a kiss on his hair and saying something complimentary about Aramis' soothing skills.

But he wasn't Porthos, and he couldn't be that tactile without doing something stupid, and so he merely inclined his head and murmured, "Apology accepted."

Aramis beamed at him, his delight at being forgiven ever so obvious. Aramis hated confrontation – it was what made him practice his sneaking about until he could sleep around London without being caught.

Of course, his practicing must have gotten interrupted by something else, because Athos wasn't sure how often he had barred their dorm door from some irate boyfriend who was furiously looking for "that little flirt".

Afterwards, threat averted by Athos' iciest expression, he would turn to reprimand the most generous lover around, but would fall short upon seeing Aramis' tousled curls or the line of suck marks up his neck. Not to mention the grateful smile.

That one was the killer.

That and the tired yawn that Aramis would give, all arched back and sleepy smile, and the innocuous invitation for a nap.

Right, a nap, because _napping _is what Athos was always in the mood for after seeing Aramis bathed in afterglow.

It was getting harder and harder – pun intended – to decline that tantalising offer, but he couldn't bear the look of shocked betrayal that he knew Aramis would give him if he realised what Athos was thinking whenever Aramis curled up next to him.

What he was thinking whenever Aramis did _anything_ near him.

Athos was meant to be his friend_, _he was _safe, _he and Porthos were the ones Aramis came home to, and that in itself was a gift.

It was better this way, he had lost too much to risk losing them, too.

"Heads up, Athos, d'Artagnan's taking English, too," Porthos called.

"Language or literature?" he asked automatically, and sensed the '_be gentle_' look that Aramis was giving him in the form of a frown.

"Literature," d'Artagnan replied, still eyeing him a little warily – wonderful, even Porthos got on the boy's good side before he did.

"Amateur-" he was cut off mid-word by Aramis' elbow in his ribs and hastily amended, "Amazing. Which is your favourite, ah, Shakespeare play?"

Dreadful question, damn Aramis for unsteadying him.

D'Artagnan glanced between them, evidently having seen Aramis assault him. "Er, '_Taming of the Shrew_'?"

"If I be waspish, best beware my sting," he quoted, and ignored Porthos and Aramis' chuckles.

D'Artagnan did not ignore them, and with the attitude of a boy trying to win favour, nibbled his lip and answered with a modified quote, "Aramis' remedy is to pluck it out?"

There was a beat of silence, and then Porthos and Aramis collapsed against each other in peals of laughter. Athos did _not _feel the corner of his lip tugging upwards into a rueful smile, nor did he find d'Artagnan's shy smile at all endearing.

"How fortunate for you that I _am _a gentleman," he said instead, pinning the boy with his stare.

"Nah," Porthos said, "He's a wasp; stinger, talons, an' teeth."

Aramis' laugh died to be replaced with horror. "Wasps have teeth?"

"You ever seen a tarantula hawk?" Porthos asked, eyes glittering with glee at Aramis' terrified shake of his head. "Oh, you won't like 'em, big as your thumb."

"Athos?" Aramis asked uncertainly, knowing him to be the voice of reason whenever Porthos' tricks got to him.

"They don't sting humans," he said placatingly, and waited for Aramis to turn aggrieved eyes on Porthos before adding, "Normally."

"Athos!" Aramis cried in startled horror and shoved him on the arm.

Porthos' laugh was loud and delighted, "I owe you a drink, mate."

Aramis pouted petulantly at them both until Athos held a hand over his heart and murmured, "_Je suis desolé_."

Aramis always perked up when he used French, or maybe it was the act of gallantry, he wasn't sure. Either way, it was the easiest way to make his grumbling turn into a grin, and Aramis was always particularly attentive to him afterwards.

He wasn't seeking it out, and even if he was, it was only because anything was preferable to seeing Aramis in a mood – even if his pout was stupidly loveable.

"_Je te pardonne,_" Aramis replied happily, and smoothed the wrinkle he had made in Athos' shirt in forgiveness, hand resting overlong against his arm so that it was as if Athos was leading him to a dance or something.

Ballroom dances were not quite Aramis' style, even if that image was an interesting one.

With a snort of amusement, he looked up and Porthos' eyes met his. There was some strange sort of intensity there until Porthos cleared his throat and smacked a friendly palm on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

The boy did well not to stumble, really.

"So, you stayin' on campus?"

"Yeah, but, um," d'Artagnan trailed off awkwardly, and Aramis immediately swooped in.

"You don't know which dorm you're in?"

D'Artagnan shook his head sheepishly. "It's all been a bit hectic."

"Of course," Aramis agreed gently, and then his palm replaced Porthos' on the boy's shoulder. "No matter, we happen to be good friends with the student rep of accommodations."

"Constance got that gig?" Porthos asked with a grimace. "Only she would sign up for that."

"Her organisation skills are without parallel," Athos remarked, and Porthos shrugged in agreement. "It's why she makes a fantastic manager for the paper."

D'Artagnan looked up in interest so Athos inclined his head at Aramis' silent request to tell all. A foolish thing to do. He realised his mistake immediately when d'Artagnan lit up and Aramis smiled like a mother hen that had found diversion for its wayward chick.

"We three are on the college's newspaper," Aramis said.

"It's a magazine," Porthos claimed.

"It's a _newspaper,_" Athos insisted, refusing to kowtow to anything less than a tabloid – and if he could, he would make it a broadsheet.

"_Anyway,_" Aramis continued exasperatedly, having heard this argument many times before, "We all write articles, but we have official roles as well. Athos is our editor, I do layout, Porthos does photos – he has a fantastic trigger finger."

Porthos chuckled quietly at their private joke. "You get one after livin' in London for so long."

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis hopefully, a question evident on his face.

"Well, we do have a space," Aramis said it to Athos, who would have declined even against Aramis' most pleading look – or, at least, he would have tried to.

Fortunately for his dignity though, he remembered something. They were third years now.

"Right, we do, as it happens," he said, and let his irritation show so that d'Artagnan didn't think he was being given a pity assignment. "We need a first year's column, experiences, study tactics, that sort of thing."

"You can write your own things, too, as long as they're approved," Aramis added.

D'Artagnan's interest was sorely piqued; Athos could see his mind whirring as he thought of ideas. "Approved by who?"

"Me," Athos said simply, and decided not to tug him on the '_whom_'mistake, "And Treville, as Dean of Musketeers College, he gets a draft before it's published."

Porthos snorted, "Yeah, 'cept he trusts you enough not to bother most of the time. He only wants to check we ain't bad-mouthing the Guards College."

Aramis nodded sagely at d'Artagnan's confusion. "There's a long-standing feud between our Dean and theirs, apparently Richelieu never took kindly to the university splitting into colleges."

"That is the understatement of the century," Athos drawled, "Richelieu has something of a vendetta against us."

"That's 'cause we're better than them," Porthos said proudly, "And his newspaper sucks."

"That's true, it does," Aramis agreed, "So, would you like to join our little committee?"

"Sure! I mean, if that's okay?" D'Artagnan wisely looked to him for his approval, and Athos found that it was surprisingly difficult to deny him.

It wasn't Aramis' sticky-sweet charm, or Porthos' bowl-over enthusiasm, but something remarkably… Puppyish.

"Of course," he found himself saying, and smirked when three smiles were aimed his way.

The benefit for being known as an insular – if Aramis was to be believed – grump, was that whenever he deigned to do something pleasant, he was rewarded.

Pavlov's dogs had nothing on him, he mused when Porthos slung an arm about his neck.

"Ah, my three favourite nuisances," Constance's voice rang from amidst a cacophony of desks and stalls, each marked out with placards in her neat handwriting. "And look, you've started recruiting before term's even started."

They wound their way through confused first years and Constance's vain attempts at a queue, pushing to the front without a care. Constance opened her mouth to scold them, frowning when Athos simply stared at one indignant youngster to quiet him.

"Constance, my dear," Aramis called charmingly, "Will you find our friend his dorm? He's lost."

D'Artagnan, having been safely ushered through his year mates, blushed furiously under Constance's attentive regard. "I'm not _lost._"

"Then, where are we?" Athos asked wryly.

D'Artagnan's gaze darted about, trying to find some frame of reference, but he was saved by Constance giving Athos the evil eye. "That's quite enough."

Porthos grinned at him when he inclined his head in acceptance, his expression clearly saying, '_Thumb, you're under it._'

Athos surreptitiously rubbed two fingers against his cheek in crude response.

Constance was oblivious to this, her nose buried in her iPad as she searched for d'Artagnan's name. Aramis slid him a sly glance – which Athos immediately knew meant that he was up to something.

"_Charles _d'Artagnan?" Aramis murmured, "Why, that's almost as posh as Olivi-"

"Aramis," he warned lowly, and took a steadying breath when Aramis' eyes lidded in response.

Aramis made no secret of his tastes, and judging from his tastes in lovers – if they were male, commanding and confident, or female, sure and spirited – telling Aramis what to do was less of an order and more of an enticement.

It didn't mean anything, it was harmless, Aramis often airily explained that his brain had long taken residence elsewhere in his body and that his head was full of air.

It didn't help Athos' blood pressure when Aramis amped his teasing up to full throttle just to see if he could make Athos twitch, determined to break past Athos' staid – and straight, he would argue that until the cows came home – barriers.

Oh, how little Aramis knew.

How little they _all _knew, and he was including himself in that, lately.

Constance looked up triumphantly, her task finished. "He's with you three, as it happens, in The Garrison."

"Best dorm around," Porthos supplied, "And that's even if we weren't there."

"We're the closest to the Student Union," Aramis explained, "It's called The Market, by the way, you'll get used to the names."

"There's a distinct theme," Constance laughed, and then smiled at d'Artagnan. "Come find me if you need anything and these three are being useless."

They bristled as they were expected to, but d'Artagnan only had eyes for Constance, his smile absurdly shy. "Where are you?"

It was almost enough to make Athos laugh. D'Artagnan was truly playing up to that puppy charm, and if Constance's smile was anything to go by, it might actually be working.

Of course, she was probably looking at the boy as if he were her next project.

Constance pointed over their shoulders. "Across campus, The Forge, it's part of the textiles department."

D'Artagnan cocked his head to the side, like a spaniel on the scent. "You're studying textiles?"

Constance laughed and tugged at a once-frayed hem on Porthos' shirt. "Yes, who do you think patches Porthos up? Aside from Aramis, of course."

Aramis gave her a pleased bow and tapped a faded line on Porthos' arm for d'Artagnan to see. "My stitches are of the blood and bone variety, Constance is the whizz on the sewing machine."

"One of us had to be," she teased, and Aramis neatened Porthos' shirt cuff and grimaced.

"If we can all just forget _that _incident."

D'Artagnan looked to him when he snorted, but he gestured to Porthos who was practically fidgeting with glee to tell the story. "Aramis was convinced he was the next Gucci-"

"Ralph Lauren, Porthos, please," Aramis insisted dramatically.

Porthos chuckled and held a hand over Aramis' mouth. "Whatever, all he ended up bein' was shit. He tried to sew a shirt and ended up makin' three arm holes." Aramis made an affronted noise and started to struggle, but settled when Porthos grinned and held him against his chest. "He spent a week insistin' that he _meant _to do that."

Aramis glared when Athos couldn't hold back his chuckle. "He even wore it out one night, but admitted defeat when he realised he couldn't pull with one sleeve flapping uselessly from his waist."

Constance held the bridge of her nose. "It was certainly a trend that didn't catch on."

"Funny that," Porthos rumbled through a laugh, and let Aramis go only to rest his chin on Aramis' shoulder.

"You just don't have my vision," Aramis muttered, surprisingly quiescent after all of that, but smiled when d'Artagnan tried not to laugh with the rest of them.

The buzz of Constance's phone interrupted them and she sighed, "I've got to go, first day's always mayhem. Meet tomorrow for the paper?"

"Of course," he replied just as he noticed Aramis' smile taking a second too long to appear. When they had wandered on, herding d'Artagnan to The Garrison, he asked, "Why didn't you invite her for dinner?"

Constance occasionally joined them in whatever capacity they had their evening meal, whether it was at a sedate time because one of them had missed lunch, or a midnight snack sprawled over a sofa with Pot Noodle containers littering the floor.

Aramis glowered at him. "Have you not been on Facebook? She has a new boyfriend."

If he hadn't been so attuned to _real life_ rather than virtual life, he would have missed the slight sagging of d'Artagnan's shoulders.

Ah, youth.

He gave Aramis a sceptical look. "I wouldn't even _have_ a Facebook if it wasn't for you using my email address and spending an evening tagging me in far too many photos."

"Hey, they were _my _photos, and you were in them, so I tagged you. You couldn't have an empty profile, Athos."

Porthos grinned. "What did you make his password again?"

Athos rolled his eyes and refused to say anything, but d'Artagnan's sagged shoulders had perked up as he looked to Aramis, who, naturally, obliged. "_Je suis un _moody motherfucker."

"He thinks he's funny," he told d'Artagnan, who was biting his lip for some reason.

Aramis' laugh was bordering on infectious, but he refused to give into it, even when his friend asked between gasps, "Did you ever even change it?"

"It was easy to remember after you and Porthos brought it up every single day for a month."

"That's because it was damn funny," Porthos chuckled, not at all cowed by his glare.

D'Artagnan caught his eye and then he burst into laughter. "I'm sorry, Athos, but that is pretty funny."

He sniffed haughtily, even though he was pleased to see the boy smile. Melancholy was too heart-breaking on his young face, and it had obviously affected all three of them as they had no plans to send him away any time soon.

Make that mother _hens_, he thought idly.

"_Anyway,_" he growled at a beaming Aramis. "Constance. Anyone we know?"

Aramis' glower returned and deepened, turning his already sensual features more attractive with an undercurrent of darkness. His natural light still seemed to gleam through, like an angel that had fallen momentarily to wreak righteous fury on Constance's new boyfriend before ascending to the heavens again.

He coughed and tried to listen to what his very good and really-shouldn't-be-so-attractive friend was saying.

"He's a Guard."

"What?!" That was Porthos, exclaiming in outrage, voicing the noise Athos wanted to make, and d'Artagnan looked between them in confusion.

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"The Guards' are our sworn enemies," Aramis said dramatically, "It goes beyond the newspaper, we _all _despise them."

D'Artagnan, being the clever individual that he was turning out to be, looked to him for an explanation – he was starting to see the benefits of having the boy around, at least someone appreciated him.

"It's worse than the gossip goes, really," he explained. "Everyone thinks it's just a friendly rivalry, as we're all part of the same university, but Guards College is… well, Aramis put it best."

Aramis gave him a pleased smile and Athos had to struggle not to return it, lest he grin outrageously at seeing Aramis' face light up in satisfaction.

"Why is she dating him then?"

They looked to Aramis, who was ever with his ear to the ground for information.

"I don't know," Aramis said bitterly, "His profile was private, maybe he's the son of a giant design company or something."

"As if Constance is that mercurial," he chided, and added to d'Artagnan, "Constance thinks the colleges' feud is ridiculous, as do a few other people, actually."

"Please," Porthos scoffed, "The only reason Louis wants us to be best mates is 'cause he wants to bang Anne."

"Who doesn't?" Aramis said wistfully, and enlightened a confused d'Artagnan, "Anne is the Head Girl at Guards, and beautiful, and Louis' a fool if he thinks he stands a chance."

Porthos chuckled at Aramis' scorn. "Aramis has been pinin' for her since we bumped into her an' Louis last year."

"Aramis pines for everyone," he clarified, and d'Artagnan grinned when Aramis flipped him the finger.

"I have a romantic's heart, forgive me if it beats out of turn," Aramis said with nonchalant haughtiness, and ignored Porthos' bawdy 'ooh!'.

D'Artagnan was quietly contemplative as Aramis and Porthos squabbled over what constituted 'romance' and whether so many notches on a bedpost that it turned to sawdust could really be considered romantic.

"Do you have an Agony Aunt column on the paper?" d'Artagnan asked, and met their three wry nods. "I bet that's what Constance does."

Athos shrugged. "Nobody knows who that is, but we've all written to them at some point, so we're fairly certain that it's an outsider," he said, a little spark of anger flaring at still not knowing who it is. It was _his _paper, and he didn't like not knowing.

His letters had started out probing, trying to whittle down the suspects, but after a time they had become… conversational.

Whoever they were, he might be in a lot of trouble if they ever decided to spill the beans.

He had to hope that Treville kept them on a tight leash, as he was the only one who knew the writer's true identity.

"But whether it is her or not," he continued past the grip of fear around his heart, "She also does our Student Living articles. Food, clubs, life hacks, that sort of thing."

"Speakin' of that, I saw the draft of this week's paper, there's a new bar down the road?"

Porthos' eyes gleamed in interest.

Aramis flicked open his phone to look at the email Constance had sent them all that morning for Monday's edition. "The Bastille?"

Athos deliberately cleared his throat. "I, for one, think we should make it our new port of call."

Aramis smirked at him. "That's because it's French-owned and you want to make patriotic remarks all night."

His lip twitched but he tried to keep his tone serious and his words tempting, "They have a bar-crawl, you know? It goes all around the street."

Porthos rubbed his hands together, easily persuaded. "Awesome." He cast a mischievous glance at Aramis. "We'll jus' make it out of the front door and then we'll 'ave to carry Aramis the rest of the way."

Aramis was a notoriously terrible drunk. It wasn't that he was a _bad _drunk, it was the complete opposite actually, Aramis was the cuddliest bastard the world had ever seen – and that was even before the alcohol.

Aramis was giving Porthos dirty looks and then noticed that Athos couldn't quite hide his smile. Aramis' eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Wait, what's this walkabout called?"

"The Seine."

The three of them groaned at the terrible pun and Athos let his laughter bubble through him, happy to allow Aramis to push him into Porthos for a hug masquerading as a growl.

A new bar, good friends, and the college newspaper, what more did he need?

* * *

**Author's Note: **Fencing, Athos, obviously; fencing is obviously what you need. For the record, yes, I really am being that cliché with the building names, and yes, Constance is totally taking a tailor's subject - she has a role to play with her fabric wizardry.

An Agony Aunt is an advice column, Pavlov's dogs refer to learned conditioning, football refers to English football where the "Gunners" are Arsenal (I just couldn't see Porthos in a Chelsea strip, thoughts?).


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: **The boys have taken on a puppy but it's Treville who puts them all through obedience training and finds them gleaming metal sticks to play with.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"Feel like a feather in the breeze,  
Floating through space in your embrace,  
Dancing on clouds way up above,  
Since the second that you beckoned my love.

I'm happy,  
So happy, when you're near.  
My troubles just disappear,  
As soon as you're by my side, well, I'm satisfied."

- Dean Martin, '_I Feel Like a Feather in the Breeze_'

* * *

Athos wondered for a while as to when, exactly, he had become a chaperone – naturally, he placed all of the blame directly onto Aramis' slender shoulders, the ones he was currently brushing against and trying not to completely lean on.

Settling d'Artagnan in was surprisingly difficult. He was on the floor above them and he didn't have much stuff to move in, but the difficulty came when the boy stood in the middle of his room and looked like a drowned puppy in the midst of a storm.

Athos sighed, caught d'Artagnan's eye, and jerked his head outside. "Come on then, we'll show you around."

A jubilant smile was his reward for being a sucker and it was the work of minutes to show d'Artagnan the hallway where the three of them were based.

"How come you have such a large room, Athos?" d'Artagnan asked, warily eyeing the myriad boxes that he still hadn't unpacked – and he refused to think that he was using the boy as a distraction.

"Because he pays for the privilege," Aramis said when Athos would have simply chosen to shrug. He shot Aramis a frown but only received a wry smile in return. He really didn't want to delve into his past right now, he was quite enjoying the almost respectful look on d'Artagnan's face and he didn't want to taint it with the truth.

The truth being that he had more money in his bank account than he knew what to do with.

"I had my pick of rooms when I became editor of the paper," he added neutrally, and then gestured to Aramis and Porthos, "As an exchange student and a scholarship respectively, they could follow me."

Neither of them seemed as concerned as he had been to have their social states spelled out; and maybe they were right not to be, because d'Artagnan simply nodded and said, "Cool."

Athos had an irrational hatred of that word.

He closed his door on d'Artagnan's nosiness and murmured, "Time to move on."

D'Artagnan ducked his head to hide his flush and Aramis gave him another quelling look, prompting him to simply raise an eyebrow – he would not coddle the boy, that was for Aramis to do.

"We have an appointment with Treville."

Aramis' frown turned into a pout. "Why didn't you say anything? I wanted to show d'Artagnan around properly."

"You still can, he's coming with us," Athos stated, and led the way down the hallway.

"I am?"

"You're on the paper now, aren't you?" he said it authoritatively, curious as to whether d'Artagnan would shy away from the responsibility, but the boy simply beamed at him.

Of course he had to find _another _ridiculously happy-go-lucky person; he couldn't have found a kindred spirit who simply wanted to despise all the same things that he despised.

Actually, perhaps that wouldn't have been a good idea.

And perhaps their three enthusiasms were fairly amusing, especially when d'Artagnan wistfully eyed the sprawling grounds and said, "This'd be great for Frisbee when it's warmer."

Porthos' grin might have eventually split his face had Athos not smacked a tree with the heel of his palm and sent the morning's dew cascading down on top of him.

Athos quickly ducked out of the way before a damp and distinctly grouchy Porthos could grab him in a bear hug, and pushed Aramis in the way instead. Which meant that he now had the two of them on his tail as he darted ahead to put some distance between them.

Porthos would have no qualms about barrelling him to the floor and covering him in dewy grass, so he scarpered to Treville's as quick as he could without looking like he was actually fleeing.

He was though.

He heard d'Artagnan's delighted laughter over Porthos' swearing and Aramis' Spanish curses. It evoked a ridiculous smile, so he hid it as he ducked into the administration building, The Palace, and trotted quickly up the stairs.

It meant that he could knock on Treville's door and await the quiet, "Come in", without the others catching up to him and exacting their revenge.

Was he essentially hiding behind Treville to stave off an attack?

It was simply a tactical retreat, he was sure of it.

"Ah, Athos, there you are. Settled in?" Treville asked with brief, polite smile as he adjusted his shirt cuffs.

"Of course, sir," he lied, as was customary, and then they both gave small but genuine smirks. It was the same pattern of conversation that they had every time; Treville would ask a question that he knew the answer to, Athos would lie to provide the right answer, and then they would both move on despite knowing the truth.

To hear Aramis' romanticism tell it, it was a bit like a knight's code of chivalry, you took the blame and lied about the cause. Athos liked it; it meant that he could stand tall and square his shoulders, because Treville knew that he could handle whatever he threw at him.

It was certainly more than his father thought of him.

Athos took his place at the far wall with one shoulder leaning against the aged wood. Treville's sigh heralded clattering footsteps and Athos felt his lip twitch again.

If he had a wine glass in his hand, he would have toasted Treville and murmured, '_To a new term_.'

It promised to be an eventful one.

"Aramis, Porth- why are you wet?"

Athos turned with an expectant look on his face and tutted loudly when he saw them, as if he had no part in their tomfoolery. Porthos' tense jaw told him that he would be paying double later, but Porthos managed to reply with forced neutrality, "It rained."

Aramis' lip curved as he strolled into the room and left Porthos standing in the doorway, alone against Treville's best perceptive stare.

"That is a poor excuse, but I'll let it pass if only because you seem to be hiding someone from my sight. You, come out." Treville's order wasn't enough to prompt a contrary Porthos to move, but it did entice a terrified-looking d'Artagnan out from behind Porthos' protective bulk. "Ah, d'Artagnan, can I help you?"

D'Artagnan threw him a nervous glance.

"He's with us," Athos supplied, and smirked when Treville raised an eyebrow. "Yes, as Constance put it, we're recruiting early this semester."

"As opposed to 'at all'," Treville muttered, but inclined his head in Athos' direction to say that d'Artagnan could stay in the room, to his small smile of delight.

"We didn't need anyone else, sir, you know that," Porthos chuckled as he hooked his arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders.

"What you _need _isn't allowed under assault laws, Porthos," Treville sighed to their laughs, and added to Athos, "I suppose this is your way of getting around the third-year mentor program as well?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Athos agreed with a shrug, "I am partial to a short-cut."

"Not that you're a short-cut," Aramis reassured d'Artagnan, "Athos is just idle."

"Lazy," Porthos remarked.

"Indolent," Treville put in, and Athos tipped his head to lean against the wall.

"Thank you, my ego _was _in need of a diminishing this early in the semester."

"Again, assault laws," Treville said with what was almost a smile. "You need something to occupy you, if at least to keep you all out of my hair."

"What hai-?" Porthos started, but clicked his teeth together and grinned when Treville shot him a look.

"What would you suggest?" Athos asked, trying to divert Treville, and entirely focused on the idea of _distraction_. It was as if Treville had read his desperate thoughts from earlier and was offering him a reprieve. "We already have the paper."

"Yes, and look how busy you are," Treville commented sardonically, earning a mock-gasp from Aramis.

"I'm excessively busy; I haven't even had a chance to check out the transfer students – for study purposes, of course."

"Of course," Treville said dryly and shook his head when Aramis smiled charmingly at him. "You, especially, need something tiring."

"I don't think they allow clubs like that, sir," Aramis remarked cheekily, earning a quelling stare – and Athos realised that this was probably where he learned it from. No wonder it worked so well on him.

"We aren't exactly athletes, sir," Athos drawled, "We tend to watch rather than play."

"That we do," Aramis purred for their ears alone, and winked at a surprised d'Artagnan, ever comfortable with his own sexuality.

Athos envied him.

"Speak for yerself." Porthos flexed unabashedly, his biceps straining under his t-shirt. "You wouldn't let me play anymore rugby."

Treville actually stirred to point at Porthos as he said exasperatedly, "I didn't let you play rugby because you decided to, and I quote, _practice scrumming_."

"We were!"

"You were in a bar, not 10 minutes from here, at 3am, and the people you were _practicing _with, were Guards who all ended up bloodied."

"S'not my fault they can't scrum properly," Porthos grumbled and rubbed his ear between a finger and thumb, the one that had almost been bitten off by an overzealous Guard.

Athos snorted as Aramis gave him a glance filled with reluctant humour. They had both spent that night in A&E as Porthos received way too many stitches; it was what had prompted Aramis to take his first aid courses so that he could take care of Porthos – and later, Athos, too.

Treville sighed, "What about cricket?"

"I do look good in cricket whites," Aramis conceded seriously.

"Rowing?" Treville suggested, ignoring Aramis' smirk.

"I refuse to be shouted at anywhere, let alone whilst on a body of water," Athos murmured.

"Tennis?"

"These clubs all exist, you know we like to start the trends," Porthos chuckled. "Besides, I'm better at squash than tennis."

"Useless," Treville cried tiredly, but there was amusement in there somewhere as he glanced up at his wall of alumni for inspiration. Athos stepped closer, hesitating until Treville nodded him forward, and examined a photograph that had caught his attention.

"Sir?" he asked distractedly, and the others stopped their bickering as they tried to see what Athos was looking at. "What's this?"

Treville made a noise of inquiry and then snorted, "Oh, that. Nothing you would be familiar with; besides, the club hasn't existed since the colleges formed."

Aramis made an angry noise. "Ever since the Guards stole it?"

"No, actually, but Richelieu and I were the captains as youths and neither of us could agree-" Treville had noticed Athos' change in stance and cut himself off to say, "Yes?"

Athos' focus had fixed on that old photograph of a young Treville and Richelieu side-by-side, a trophy shield gripped between them. A shield and something else. "May I be excused for a moment, sir?"

"Fine, but be quick, I am in the middle of a fascinating tale, here."

As Athos strode out of the room, he heard Porthos say cheekily, "This a tale from when there were taverns?" and heard a small smack as Treville cuffed him around the back of the head.

"Could 'ave you sued for that, sir," Porthos remarked, and Athos heard another smack and Porthos' deep chuckle.

Porthos was going to have them all expelled one day, and perhaps that thought shouldn't have been filled with so much wry fondness.

Athos jogged back to The Garrison, trying desperately to remember if he had seen the one thing that he was proud of, the one thing that his parents might actually be proud of him for – and that was saying something.

He hadn't packed it himself – there had never seemed any point whilst at university – but that didn't mean that somebody hadn't packed it for him. The staff had often stopped by his training to offer compliments when his parents weren't around.

When he reached his room, he started ripping boxes open, throwing their contents aside as he searched. "Come on," he muttered to himself, and stood in the middle of a mess that looked as if a tornado had blown through.

His gaze lit on a box marked '_fragile_' and he prowled over to it. He had assumed that it actually had fragile contents, but perhaps it was meant to be a sign of what was within – it wasn't as if he had anything fragile, anyway.

Athos tore the tape from the box, letting it flutter around him, and thrust his hand amidst a fabric that he hadn't felt since his last time on the courts.

There.

His fingers curled around a hilt like a handshake with an old friend, and he carefully drew out his beloved épée, the exact same weapon that he had seen clutched in a young Treville's hand.

It felt _right _back in his palm, a familiar weight and a familiar feeling of _power._ He wanted to swing it, to loosen his muscles, to _spar, _to whirl across the courts until his muscles burned and his lungs ached.

To feel that euphoria of exertion as everything else melted away.

But Athos took a breath and forced himself to simply shake out his arm, hook his épée to his belt, and return to the others.

Excitement was a fast patter in his heartbeat. If he was lucky, if he was so very lucky as he hardly ever was, he might be able to make something of his favourite pastime.

He might have even found something that Treville approved of, and that managed to stoke a little burst of pride in his chest as his fingertips trailed over the swept hilt.

Perhaps the knight's code of chivalry was going to be more effective than he had thought; it certainly felt strangely familiar to wander past the old buildings with his épée at his hip. As if he had taken steps back a few decades.

He just had to hope that the others felt the same way.

Treville's eyes lit up when he strode back in, as did Aramis' when he caught sight of the glittering slash of steel at his waist.

"I should have known, Athos," Treville laughed quietly. "Are you proficient?"

"I think I was fencing before I walked," he replied dryly, and handed over his épée a little tentatively.

He needn't have worried, Treville drew it with the ringing that Athos loved, and twirled it with the skill of a master that Athos was impressed by.

"It's lighter than I remember," Treville murmured.

"It probably is," Athos admitted, "I had it specially made for my height, weight, and style."

Treville's smile was bordering on a grin as he reluctantly passed the weapon back, hilt first. "I think you've found your distraction."

Athos turned to the others with an enquiring lift of his eyebrow, unwilling to pressure them into something they weren't interested in. Porthos weighed his head to the side and shrugged. "I'm game, s'just a long knife, right?"

Aramis slid Porthos a glance when Treville frowned, but interrupted any sudden questions by saying lowly, "May I?"

Athos met light brown eyes turned dark with something he wasn't sure that he could name, but he knew that his mouth had gone too dry to do anything other than nod.

Aramis held the épée with the reverence it deserved, but when he went to swish it – as everyone just had to do when holding one – Athos only had to hold a hand out for Aramis' superior reflexes to have him halting immediately.

"If you're in, you may, but not here," he murmured, trying to make his smile simply encouraging and not ten thousand degrees worth of lust from seeing his épée in Aramis' graceful fingers.

Perhaps this wasn't such a good distraction.

"You need a first year," Treville reminded, and Athos locked onto it as his only means of escape. Had he really been considering Aramis and Porthos in fencing gear as anything other than mind-blowingly attractive?

_Idiot, _he chanted to himself as he snatched his épée back, and vowed to pack it away, never to see the light of day again.

Wait, why was d'Artagnan looking very excited?

"Count me in!"

Fuck.

"Then consider yourself a team," Treville stated, something like pride in his voice, and then a distinctly dark smile curved his mouth. "Richelieu is going to fly off of the handle."

Athos stiffened, wary of any threats towards his friends – towards his _teammates, _he amended a little bitterly. "Will that be a problem?"

"No, no," Treville denied, and then pressed his lips together dubiously. "Well, don't expect to be unchallenged for long."

"Wonderful," he sighed, and distractedly batted d'Artagnan's fingers away from his épée. "I suppose we'll need swords."

"Send me the bill," Treville said, and it was a dismissal and encouragement all in one.

Athos heaved another sigh and turned to the others. Aramis and Porthos were both murmuring about something and they each had a huge grin on their faces, but their glee was nothing on d'Artagnan's, whose beam could probably rival a supernova.

"Wait a moment, Athos." He turned on his heel to return to his place. Aramis gave him a concerned – and strangely considering – glance, but Porthos hooked an arm over his shoulder and led him after d'Artagnan – which probably gained him a brownie point or two in Treville's books.

"Yes, sir?"

"Recruitment," Treville said simply, and Athos wondered when the old man had gotten so good at reading him.

"I have recruits."

Treville rolled his eyes and sighed, "Athos, you need more than three members."

"I do, I have d'Artagnan, too."

"Don't be pert."

"But sir-"

"But nothing, I expect to see an advert in the paper tomorrow – and don't forget that I _know _you're the editor."

He muttered something derogatory under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he replied swiftly, "Is that everything, sir?"

Treville's lip twitched almost into a smile and then he nodded dismissively. "Yes, off with you," he said, and as Athos was closing the door, reminded loudly, "Tomorrow, Athos."

Athos considered sticking his finger up at the door but Treville had eyes like a hawk, and they were everywhere, so he wouldn't put it past the old git to know.

Besides, he respected Treville more than he respected anyone else in the world.

Treville was the one who snagged him after first year midterms and said that the newspaper team would be graduating by the end of that year. Athos had agreed without thinking about it, too floored by being singled out for something _good._

It was the first time anyone had looked at him and seen him capable of achievement since Thomas had died and Athos had shut himself off from the world.

He had three green recruits on his hand and an instruction to find more – what on Earth had he set himself up for? Because it sounded like way more work than he was comfortable with.

Still, with his épée at his side, he felt incredibly satisfied, in a way that brought his stance together and his shoulders straight and… It felt marvellous.

As he trotted downstairs, he found the three of them waiting in the reception, Aramis flirting with Treville's middle-aged secretary as Porthos and d'Artagnan lounged against the doors.

He tapped his foot once and Aramis looked up with a pleased smile on his face, turning back to his quarry with a murmured, "Call me," to which she scoffed and sent him away.

The faint flush of pink on her cheeks made Athos shake his head in amusement.

Aramis could charm anyone, regardless of age or preference.

D'Artagnan wisely waited until they were outside again before saying, "Okay, he's terrifying."

Aramis chuckled, "He likes Athos."

"He _likes _Athos?" d'Artagnan asked incredulously, and when Athos raised an eyebrow at him, he hurriedly explained, "It's just, he was still so mean to you!"

"Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen, that's Treville's motto," Porthos said with a grin.

"It works very well," Athos stated loyally as his hand came to rest on the hilt of his epee. Aramis noticed and nudged Porthos to attract his attention to it. "What?"

"It suits you, the sword," Aramis said, his eyes meeting Athos' a little slow, as if they had dragged a path up his chest – but that was his own fevered heartbeat speaking. The épée was a distracting sight, it wasn't surprising that their attention was diverted.

Men and swords, and all that.

Porthos nodded, a bright intensity to his eyes as he watched Athos duck his head in pleasure at the compliment. With a clear of his throat, Porthos hooked an arm around Athos' shoulder, wary of the épée between them. "So, what are we called?"

Athos' curved his hand around the hilt, using the bite of steel to ground himself against the distraction of Porthos' presence. His head was awhirl with thoughts and sensations, the brightest being the thought of his favourite weapon in Aramis and Porthos' hands.

And wasn't that an image that could totally derail a thought process.

Oh.

"What?"

"Isn't it obvious?" d'Artagnan asked, and flared his palms when they looked at him. "You're bringing the team back from the dead, Treville used to captain it, and Athos studies English."

Athos laughed as he understood, and it was just the cherry on top of how delightfully happy he felt. Porthos frowned at d'Artagnan, and then leaned strangely into Athos' side, hard enough for Athos' bubble of laughter to be cut off.

Suddenly, Porthos had darted away, and Athos felt a lack of weight at his hip. He frowned at a chuckling, épée-wielding Porthos, mostly so he could ignore the heat in his stomach. "Hand it over, fiend."

"You're so dead for the water thing," Porthos mock-threatened, but was eyeing the markings along the hilt. "What does this say-?"

Athos leaned in and jammed his thumb into Porthos' wrist, shocking his surprisingly perceptive friend into dropping the hilt directly into Athos' palm.

"Hey, unfair!" Porthos growled, and Aramis laughed with a distinctly interested look as he stood at Porthos' side.

Athos placed his front foot at an angle, feeling the stance settle him like nothing else could. It wasn't a complete feeling, he was only half-correct, but it was enough to see their eyes widen and hear d'Artagnan's awe as Athos stepped forward with the point raised at Porthos' chest.

"_En garde_," he ordered, and smirked when Aramis murmured a whole-hearted agreement.

He managed to hold the position for a full few seconds before Porthos tilted his head calculatingly and lunged forwards, nimbly dodging Athos' épée to knock him off balance and tackle him to the grass.

There was a moment where Aramis had snatched his épée as Porthos held his wrists together that he was certain his heart would explode.

Then Porthos pushed his face into the damp grass and Athos let it happen, because he deserved it, and not because he enjoyed the way Porthos had him completely pinned.

It had nothing to do with that.

* * *

**AN: **The song, guys, at the beginning, IT WAS TOTALLY ABOUT THE ÉPÉE. Also, sorry for the late update, I've been stupidly ill with the flu and my throat is still giving me grief, but there's OT3 smut on my AO3 as an apology!

Some of you may be asking "Why épée, ComeHither?", and I would say to you "It's my favourite". If I could, I would have the épée rules for contact but the sabre's rules for what part of the blade you can use. In essence, it would be a free-for-all; think James Bond in '_Die Another Day_' (this is why I have not been invited to FIE).


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **Treville asks himself what on Earth he was thinking, letting those three hooligans plan anything, and then realises that the newest hooligan is the worst of them all. Athos struggles with leashing his emotions and one gets out in the form of my favourite quote.

ALSO, there's a few '_The Dead Poets' Society_' references in this chapter; if you haven't seen it, I recommend you do so - it's beautiful and poignant. Rushed for time? Just read the script or check out the synopsis. It won't impact this update if you don't, but Athos' pain isn't quite as funny if you can't picture the quote at the end. Enjoy, _mes capitaines_!

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"I get a kick every time I see you,  
Standing there before me.  
I get a kick, though it's clear to see,  
You obviously do not adore me."

- Frank Sinatra, '_I Get A Kick Out of You_'

* * *

After praising d'Artagnan on his idea for their team name and a quick discussion as they walked back to The Garrison, Athos sent a mock-up recruitment advert to Treville and slipped his phone back into his pocket with a smile.

It took less than a minute to receive a reply.

ONE NEW EMAIL: TREVILLE.

[Don't even think about calling it that. I am _not _Keating.]

Athos smirked at his screen and tapped a reply, [But you're so inspirational, sir.]

Athos wanted to think that the reason Treville didn't reply immediately was because he was laughing too hard. When his phone eventually buzzed again, it said, [If I hear one quote from the film then I am dissolving the team.]

He laughed when another email arrived almost instantly, [And no mantras, I don't want anyone's parents saying that I'm corrupting you.]

He tapped a reply and knew that Treville could tell he was smirking. [Of course, sir.]

Aramis leaned over to read what he was writing and snickered, "How difficult was it not to write one?"

Athos held his fingers up and made them twitch as if they couldn't hold themselves back. "You have no idea." Aramis laughed and grabbed for his hand, smoothing the faux-twitches out and letting go far too soon.

Of course, it was Aramis, his little finger still linked with Athos' for a good few seconds before he got distracted and pointed something out, Athos mourning the loss a little too keenly.

Nothing new there, then.

D'Artagnan bombarded him with questions about fencing on the way back, and Athos answered them all dutifully, pretending not to be amused when Porthos or Aramis sneaked a question in under d'Artagnan's enthusiasm.

"So do we 'ave to wear them tight trousers? 'Cause I dunno if I wanna do that," Porthos groused, thumbs hooking into his pockets as he eyed Aramis' skinny jeans dubiously.

"Do you want your épée to get caught in your jeans?"

Porthos chuckled, but then Aramis threw out a hand and frowned. "Wait, if there's measurements needed, we're roping in Constance. I will not have ill-fitting clothes."

Porthos snorted and tugged at Aramis' gilet, the British racing green one that he had dragged them all into a Jack Wills store to drag off of a mannequin. "Think she'll say yeah after the last time she measured you up?"

"Constance," Aramis replied as matter-of-factly as he possibly could, "Is a professional, it's the only reason she has to deny me at every turn, I'm certain of it."

Athos snorted at Aramis' wounded pride and coughed innocently when he received a glare. "Regardless, I'm sure she'll help, it would be against her generous nature not to."

D'Artagnan frowned briefly, his thoughts evidently elsewhere. "Do you think she would want to join the fencing society?"

Athos shook his head and tried not to smile at the boy's forlorn sigh. "Constance isn't much into competition."

"She's no pacifist though," Aramis explained, and added a little dreamily, "She can be very violent."

D'Artagnan's expression changed to one of suspicious horror so Porthos pushed Aramis gently on the shoulder and clarified, "He means passionate, and he's only sayin' that 'cause she slapped 'im last year when he tried it on."

"She is the only person to have successfully denied my advances," Aramis said over-dramatically, before grinning at him with eyes that flicked to his épée. "Well, and Athos, of course."

Athos almost stumbled, but years of stance training kept his feet steady even in the face of Aramis' seductive smile – which was a bit like trying to stand up to a very persuasive and cuddly cat. He reached for his usual response, the raised eyebrow and dry tone of voice, "Yes, because _everyone _you meet succumbs to your charms."

He had to do this, had to be overly neutral, because otherwise he would do something disastrous like flush, risk accidentally giving away how much heat flared in his stomach at Aramis' attention.

If Aramis was the cat, did that make him the mouse? The plaything in Aramis' clever paws? Except, no, Aramis wasn't like that, and Athos had run long and hard to escape that poisonous brand of manipulation.

He who had never before run from anything, but the _accident _had changed all of that.

"You can consider me one that didn't," d'Artagnan grumbled, pulling Athos out of those dangerous memories. The boy smiled when Aramis' hand rested over his own heart in faux-hurt. "Sorry Aramis, you're not my type."

"Devilishly attractive?"

D'Artagnan chuckled, "No, male."

"Athos says the same thing, but he still loves me, don't you, _mon cher?_" Aramis asked cheekily, and Athos had to keep his breath from hitching at that mischievous twinkle.

"I love not Man less but Nature more," he quoted nonchalantly, unable to lie to his best friends but also physically incapable of telling the truth that was burning a hole in his chest.

He mentally kicked himself anyway, because for a moment, for a stupid, idiotic, insane moment, he thought that his _devilishly attractive _friend was doing more than teasing.

And it _wasn't _hope, because he didn't want _that_, he didn't understand _that_ enough to want it.

He sighed heavily and wondered why life had to be so fucking difficult and the heart- no, the _brain_, so damn confusing.

D'Artagnan frowned and Athos felt that familiar tell-tale fear seize his breathing, the one that gripped him when Aramis or Porthos stood too close and Athos felt his pupils dilate. Normally, he could hide behind his quotes, his stolen lines layered with hidden meaning, but d'Artagnan might _know._

But then the boy's expression lightened. "Byron!"

Athos almost sagged in relief. He would have to be more wary in future, Porthos and Aramis accepted the lines for how they sounded, not what they _meant_.

Porthos laughed and pushed in between him and Aramis, acting as the grounding buffer that he always was, as if he somehow knew that Athos was struggling. "Aramis-sexual ain't a thing, sweet."

"Of course it is." Aramis smiled at the stupidly affectionate nickname, at how he _always _garnered pet names from everyone – Aramis-sexual or not.

And Athos was fairly certain that it _was _a thing. Of course, he couldn't claim that was what assailed him, because Porthos' bulk brushing against his shoulder sent waves of warmth through him that he really didn't know how to deal with.

He should have known that the third year would be the most difficult, as if life was punishing him for not dealing with this _bad habit_ rather than just trying to ignore it.

But how was he meant to deal with it? It wasn't like he could just turn it off and on again.

It was _always _on.

"-common room, Athos?"

He blinked out of the heated maze that his mind had become. "Yes, fine."

Porthos watched him carefully, as if he could see into his very head. It was a look that always unnerved him, because then he started to think about what would happen if Porthos _knew_; knew that he spent his evenings hot and bothered and needing to do something that a cold shower couldn't fix.

So many evenings trying to purge the all-consuming attraction for them by reaching down beneath the covers and-

Porthos' grumble cut through his frantic thoughts. "You alright?"

He would have flushed under that concerned regard, but all of his blood had rushed elsewhere. It took all of his desperately flagging concentration to murmur, "Fine, thank you."

He sounded strained to his own ears, so it was no wonder that Porthos frowned. Fortunately, they had reached The Garrison and Aramis was trying to drill the door's code into d'Artagnan's head.

"Try to associate the numbers. What year were you born?" Aramis asked, and recoiled in horror when d'Artagnan answered. "You make me feel old, d'Artagnan, stop."

Porthos chuckled and d'Artagnan scowled. "I can't help my age."

"Then stop looking so young, grow a beard," Aramis insisted, running his fingers along his own, perfectly manicured facial hair.

D'Artagnan went fire-engine red and Athos took pity on the boy, pushing past to key in the code himself. "Aramis, we don't all have hours to stare at ourselves in the mirror."

"Or any reflective surface," Porthos added with a grin.

"I am not Narcissus," Aramis growled, and shoulder-checked him as they walked inside.

Athos raised an eyebrow and pinned Aramis with his stare, silently enjoying the way Aramis' light brown eyes blazed darker in irritation. "Do you mean to tell me that you have _never _admired your own reflection in a pond?"

Aramis didn't blush, as much as turn his nose up at them, throwing his sculpted jawline into stark relief. "I won't stay here to be mocked."

"Yeah, you will," Porthos chuckled, and hooked an arm around Aramis' waist to stop him from storming off.

"You're just jealous," Aramis sniffed, but a smile flirted with his lips when Porthos tugged him closer and herded him along the corridor.

Athos laughed along with d'Artagnan, but felt the absence of touch like an iced brand along his side. It wasn't in his nature to seek it out, but he had spent enough time with the tactile two that he had started craving it.

Physical signs of affection were just another sign of their friendship and shouldn't have made him jealous, he wasn't _allowed _to be jealous; it was because he deliberately maintained an air of dissatisfaction that they only grounded him when they knew that he needed it.

He needed it now.

Didn't he always?

D'Artagnan sneaked him a little glance when Porthos deliberately tripped Aramis to make him squawk. It meant that they were a little behind and d'Artagnan took the opportunity to say quietly, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he murmured, gaze locked on Porthos and Aramis until they disappeared down a side hall. When d'Artagnan would have spoken, he gave the boy a quelling look. "You're welcome, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan ducked his head to hide his smile and Athos obeyed the urge to bump the boy's shoulder with his own. The smile grew, and Athos felt one form on his own face.

Maybe he had learned a little bit about how to ground people.

Wouldn't Thomas have been surprised?

They turned the corner to see Aramis leaning against the wall and Porthos standing at his front, an arm braced by Aramis' head and something intense in his smirk. It flickered when Aramis' gaze jumped to Athos', but turned fond when he saw his and d'Artagnan's smiles.

D'Artagnan looked at him curiously so he shook his head with a laugh – they were just tactile. The boy would learn that soon enough, even Athos hadn't held out for long.

"S'our common room, we're not allowed to claim the other one," Porthos explained as they neared.

It surprised Athos when Porthos' hand fell to Aramis' hip, but then remembered that they were touch-hungry fools, and it was only because he had forgotten how they were over the summer.

He had definitely forgotten. He almost jumped when Porthos' fingers touched the small of his and Aramis' backs as they walked into the room, but that was a normal occurrence, too.

That steel door around his black heart was straining, and Porthos and Aramis were the keepers of the combination.

Athos sighed contentedly when they entered the small common room, the one they occasionally commissioned for the newspaper. It was just a room with three sofas in it, tiny compared to the main one – but that had a television and other assorted fun paraphernalia in it, and was always busy.

Two first years were fiddling with the speakers in the corner, trying to turn their music up higher than it had been programmed to go.

"Go on, git," Porthos called good-naturedly, "It's got a lock on it."

The pair looked up dejectedly, noted the way the three of them sprawled across the chairs with accustomed practice, and sloped out of the room, d'Artagnan smiling a little smugly.

It was good to be kings.

Once they'd gone, Porthos made room for d'Artagnan and reached for the wire to plug his phone in, opening an app to bypass the speakers' lock. Music pumped, something dreadful and bass-y and probably very popular. Porthos glanced at the distinctly unimpressed look on his face, chuckled, and switched it to something calmer.

Satisfied, Athos leaned forward, completing their triangle. "To business, then?"

D'Artagnan's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Are you going to recite the welcoming speech?"

"Yes," Athos nodded sombrely, and stifled a laugh when d'Artagnan realised that his joke was being taken seriously. Porthos and Aramis caught his eye and smirked, catching on in their telepathic way. "Come now, boys, let's instate d'Artagnan properly."

"S'the Musketeer way," Porthos clarified gravely to a wide-eyed d'Artagnan.

Athos held his hand out, palm down, and felt his lip twitch when Aramis and Porthos were quick on the uptake and added their hands to the pile.

"All for one," he said quietly, and nodded at d'Artagnan to add his hand. He did so, a little tentatively, but smiled when they all grinned at him. "And one for all."

Porthos bursting out into laughter clued d'Artagnan in first, who turned indignant eyes on Athos and accused, "You made that up!"

"Of course we did, _petit parvenu_," he said fondly, and would have reached out to tousle the boy's hair had Porthos not done it first. "Still, you're a Musketeer now."

D'Artagnan's smile was a small but delighted thing, and Athos mirrored it.

* * *

The sound of a slap rang around the small room and Aramis grinned despite – or, more likely, because of – the pink hand print blooming across his cheek.

"You let me off easy!" he exclaimed happily as Constance returned to measuring the inside of his leg and d'Artagnan stared in astonishment. Perhaps it said something of them all that Aramis getting slapped was not a strange occurrence – still, d'Artagnan would get used to that, too.

Slaps, hugs, and one of them in so much denial that _idiot _was practically a constant chant in his head. Right, the three of them were _great _role models for the boy.

Still, Athos wouldn't change a moment of it, not for all of the acceptance in the world.

_Idiot._

"I have tailor's chalk and I'm not afraid to use it," Constance mumbled threateningly around a mouthful of pins.

"You'll need more chalk than that," Aramis purred, and yelped with laughter when Constance pinched his thigh.

"Use a pin to pop 'is 'ead, _please_," Porthos called miserably from his slump across the sofa, looking for all the world as if a clothes fitting was akin to a Herculean task.

Athos scoffed from the other chair and curled up tape measures, painfully used to this sort of thing. He couldn't count how many hours he had stood in a tailor's with pins at every joint. At least with Constance he knew that he was going to like the end product – which reminded him.

"Why do I need new fencing gear? I have some already."

Aramis looked up from where he had been pointing out exactly where he wanted a seam – one that perfectly accentuated his ass, apparently – and sighed, "We have to match, Athos, we're a team."

"Why can't you just match the ones I have?"

"Because that would be boring and uncreative," Aramis murmured as he sketched a strange mark on his shoulder.

Constance nodded at whatever it was and then smiled at Athos. "Besides, this will go great towards my project; I needed to create a different style of clothing."

"See, Athos?" Aramis asked slyly. "You wouldn't deprive Constance of that, would you?"

With Constance's attention on her measurements, Athos raised an unamused eyebrow at Aramis but replied dutifully, "Of course not."

Aramis blew him a kiss and Athos had to keep his cheek from twitching into a pleased smile. If he was honest, he was quite looking forward to what gear designs he and Constance had come up with – not that he would admit to it just yet.

"As you refuse to join us, you'll be reimbursed," he commented, and tried to make it sound inconsequential.

It didn't work.

Constance stiffened and stood to scowl at him. "I won't take payment, Athos, this is a gift."

"As is payment, _ma chou_," Aramis crooned placatingly, and Constance valiantly tried to remain stoic – she was probably the best at it, but even she started to smile at Aramis' charms.

"You know Treville'll insist you 'ave it, Constance," Porthos added, voice muffled from where he was now face-first in the couch cushions.

Her gaze returned to him, her last hope, but she sighed when he simply smirked. "You may buy us a round of drinks if it appeases you."

She snorted a laugh but threw her hands in the air. "Fine," she said exasperatedly, but then smiled, her anger thankfully short-lived. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome. Now," he gestured at a bemused d'Artagnan who had been sat awkwardly in the corner, "Onto d'Artagnan?"

"Um," the boy stuttered in surprise, "I'm fine. Just make mine like Athos'."

Constance tapped her foot and glanced at the space that Aramis had just vacated. D'Artagnan threw him an aggrieved look but trudged over, already as under her thumb as they were.

Although, perhaps for different reasons.

Constance's brisk movements were professional, but the boy was still a shade of pink somewhere between fuchsia and magenta. Athos found himself taking pity on d'Artagnan again and tried his best to offer a distraction – he knew exactly what torture the boy was going through. "What classes do you have on Monday?"

"Shakespeare," d'Artagnan squeaked when Constance ducked to measure his in-seam.

"On a Monday?" Porthos asked disgustedly, having lifted his head to trail his fingers over Constance's box of tricks. He hesitated over the chalk and, when Constance saw him and smiled, he grinned and pocketed some charcoal.

Athos would have asked him what he was plotting but d'Artagnan's eyes were squeezed shut as he tilted his head to the ceiling as if asking for help from above. "Every day is excellent for Shakespeare, Porthos, you boor."

Porthos noticed him watching and made the 'wrong' buzzer noise. "Nah, Monday's recovery day."

"Wasn't Monday your rugby meet?" Aramis asked distractedly as he wiped at a chalk mark from his jeans.

"Exactly, what's a better way to get through a hangover than beatin' some bloke to a pulp?"

"Charming," Athos replied dryly and inclined his head at d'Artagnan. "How about Tuesday? I'd like to have try-outs for the team, then."

"Linguistics in the morning, but then I'm _free,_" d'Artagnan's voice peaked at the last word when Constance's hand brushed his leg as she moved her tape measure. She didn't notice, but the rest of them did.

Aramis' snicker earned him a glare from d'Artagnan. "Excellent, Tuesday afternoon it is." Aramis already had copies of their timetables on his wall, and his enquiring stare at d'Artagnan made Athos think that the boy's schedule might soon be added to theirs.

D'Artagnan had gone straight from stranger to recruit to an apparently essential part of their lives. Not as essential as each other, but Athos already found himself considering the boy in everything that they did.

He reminded him of Thomas.

"Will you be joining us, Constance?" he asked swiftly, forcing his thoughts aside as Constance wrote down a final measurement and d'Artagnan sagged in relief.

"I'll pop by," she said with a preoccupied smile, "But I'm out for dinner that night."

"Ah, the mystery man?"

Constance flushed, and it was a rare enough sight that they were all struck silent by it. "Yes, actually."

Aramis recovered first, his gaze narrowing as he asked shrewdly, "Going anywhere nice?"

"Regent Street," she replied, deliberately being as vague as possible so that they couldn't spy on her – which they would never even dream of doing.

Porthos removed his chin from the arm rest and, hidden from Constance's sight as she faced them, mouthed, '_Ice Bar_'_._

"How pleasant," Athos remarked with enforced geniality and made a mental note to dig out a warm jacket from his boxes.

He hadn't been to the Ice Bar in an age.

"Right," Constance announced with some finality as she picked up her things, "Measurements done; if I can coerce some of my friends into helping then I might even have them done by Tuesday."

"I would rather not have to recruit fencers in a shirt and jeans," he said dryly, and received a smack on the arm for his trouble. "Thank you, Constance."

She slid him an entertained glance and then waved off the two offers of help from Aramis and d'Artagnan, the latter looking decidedly forlorn when she said a simple goodbye and disappeared.

"She does that," Porthos called without looking up, somehow knowing that d'Artagnan was staring in confusion at the closed door. "She's not angry, don't fret."

"Aramis," Athos murmured as he picked up a list of what looked like the attributes to a Lycra catsuit, "What on Earth have you designed?"

Aramis snatched it from his hand. "That is for me to know and you to find out.. in three days."

"Am I going to hate it?"

"You hate everything, _mon cher_," Aramis remarked airily, and took one large step onto the table.

Athos tilted his head in equal parts agreement to what Aramis had said and confusion at what he was doing. It was only when d'Artagnan grinned mischievously and accepted Aramis' hand up that Athos realised what was going on.

"Don't you dare," he warned, holding up his phone, "I will email Treville immediately if you say it."

"How will you show off your fencing skills, then?" Porthos chuckled from his sprawl across the sofa, looking very much as if he wanted to stand with them but his laziness wouldn't allow it.

"I will live," Athos snapped haughtily, and glared at a laughing Aramis and d'Artagnan, "So help me, I will scrap the whole team."

"O Captain-" they chorused, but Aramis threw himself onto Athos when he tried to open his emails to Treville.

"Aramis!" he snarled, only to find Porthos' firm grip snagged on the wrist that held his phone. "Porthos!"

"O Captain, my Captain," Porthos chuckled, and Aramis took the opportunity to sit on his chest and snatch his phone as d'Artagnan fell onto a sofa and giggled like the imp that he was.

"_Mon capitaine,_" Aramis purred, and Athos gave up struggling.

There wasn't enough blood in his hands now, anyway.

* * *

**AN: **I know, a Musketeers quote and a TDPS one; just _look_ at me shoehorning the references in. My tumblr, ComeHitherAshes, has tiny ficlets showing up in my Musketeers posts - of which there are many. Come prompt me!

Jack Wills is a British clothing store, I see Aramis just bounding around the brightly coloured racks with a gleeful smile on his face. After which, he pushes Athos into All Saints (another British clothing store, think Athos' canon gear but modernised) and dresses him in distressed leather and snazzy blazers. Porthos, having nearly died of boredom, grins as they walk out of the store and Athos throws yet another beanie at him (and when Athos says that half of his clothes don't fit and dumps them in Porthos' wardrobe, he doesn't say anything).


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **I should point out that 50% of my work goes up on AO3 but not here because of the content limits, so if you're looking for some more fic, you should totally pop by my ComeHitherAshes account on Archive of Our Own! I'm currently filling out a 31-day prompt for October based around the boys, 1000 words a day, come see!

Anywho, this chapter features two of my absolute favourite Shakespeare plays, and the song choice is thanks to "desrose" for reminding me of this PERFECT song!

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"Why can't I fall in love,  
Like any other man?  
And maybe then I'll know what kind of fool I am."

- Sammy Davis Jr. '_What Kind Of Fool Am I?_'

* * *

"Parry, d'Artagnan," he repeated for what might have been the hundredth time – and he really wished that he was using hyperbole.

"I _am _parrying!"

Athos flicked his épée up and prodded d'Artagnan's shoulder with ridiculous ease. "No, you are not."

"Oh, _tais toi_, Athos," d'Artagnan muttered, having picked up on Athos' orders far too soon than was probably decent. It wasn't French in Athos' natural accent or Aramis' practiced one, but at least it wasn't Porthos' entirely unaccented and incredibly plain attempt.

Porthos could make Shakespeare sound harsh.

Athos still liked to hear him say it though, especially when he was slumped over his desk with a thousand things to write and Porthos, with one hand on Athos' shoulder and the other holding whichever play he was reading, recited a few lines.

Dawn had been creeping over the horizon, Aramis had slipped a coffee between his cramping fingers, and Porthos had spoken. "His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, or Jove for 's power to thunder… Sounds like you, Athos."

Athos had snorted a faceful of steam and raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the two who, between them, emulated Caius Marcius' bright spirit, and conquered him like he was Corioles.

"Parry," he insisted of d'Artagnan again, mostly to drive the rumbling thoughts away, but also in the vain effort to drill the reaction into the boy's head.

D'Artagnan wasn't hopeless, far from it, actually. Considering that d'Artagnan hadn't picked up anything other than a stick to play soldiers with as a child, he had considerable potential. It was just a shame that he took every loss like a personal blow.

Of course, so did Athos, he just didn't lose.

D'Artagnan's loud sigh echoed around the room and Athos had to hide his amused smile at the boy's determination. Had he been like that, once? He supposed he must have been, but he didn't remember talking back to his teacher as much as d'Artagnan did to him.

It was Aramis and Porthos' fault, they had been all too happy to lunge for their newly arrived épées and start thrusting at each other, completely ignoring everything that Athos had to say. At least d'Artagnan had listened gleefully, looking nothing like the grieving shadow that he had been two days ago.

Honestly? Athos was starting to like the little hellion.

After Constance had left with the fitting details, d'Artagnan had remained sprawled in the common room with them, bickering over sports with Porthos and chipping in for pizza. He had looked like he wanted to do the same thing on Sunday but, after herding him to breakfast, Athos had nudged him towards some of the other first years.

Aramis had fretted, but it had done d'Artagnan some good to mingle with his year mates – they had bumped into him in the halls in the midst of a stirring debate about great inventors that Athos was all too happy to weigh in on – wanted or not.

"Tesla," he had remarked as they passed the arguing pair, "Edison was a fraud."

D'Artagnan had beamed at him, his nod enthusiastic when Aramis had invited him to dinner that night, coming with stories of his year mates that had made them all laugh. He fit in well with them, and brought a few willing recruits for fencing try-outs from amongst his new friends.

Admittedly, the boy's fascination with Constance was a bit wearisome, but Athos was the last person who could make judgements on a completely preposterous and unrequited crush.

Or two.

He had to take a quick step back when d'Artagnan would have skewered him with his épée. "Good," he said quietly, and when d'Artagnan glowed from the praise, added, "Now do that every time."

Athos was met with wounded puppy-dog eyes which he summarily ignored, and received a frowning pout, instead. "You're a harsh taskmaster, Athos."

"You want to get better, don't you?"

"Yes, but we've been here for hours!" d'Artagnan whined and massaged his wrist. "My head's still full of Shakespeare, I can't concentrate."

Athos didn't feel sorry for him. He'd come out of his own Shakespeare class to find d'Artagnan staring pitifully at his week's assignment – the boy had only had an hour lecture, Athos had been up at seven to sign for the épées' delivery and then had three hours of '_Henry V_'.

"Get used to it; we're doing this every Monday." He raised his épée again and d'Artagnan groaned aloud even as he dutifully fell into position. "Now, once more unto the breach."

D'Artagnan scowled and Athos would have started the next bout, but Aramis' laugh distracted him. "For God, England, Harry, and St. George!"

Athos' gaze flicked to the side and d'Artagnan took the opportunity to sag to the floor and simply watch the spar happening alongside of them, which meant that Athos had to do the same.

Watch, not sag to the floor.

Porthos chuckled as he deflected one of Aramis' strikes. "Nah. For God, England, _Athos_, and St. George, surely?"

"Touché." Aramis' smile was a sly thing that caused Athos' pulse to jump and d'Artagnan to laugh tiredly from his sprawl on the ground.

Aramis and Porthos squared up to each other, both in jeans and with their sleeves rolled up – they looked like 17th Century duels come to blaring modernity. Aramis was in pale denim and white – lending wonderful contrast to his natural tan – and Porthos was in black – offsetting the gold of his earring to give him a glowing lustre.

The weak afternoon sunlight filtered through the high windows of the sports hall and Aramis and Porthos sparred through the beams, kicking up eddies of dust that chased their movements like magic sparks.

Watching them was like a kick and a caress – and Athos didn't want either.

The pair had picked up the rudiments of fencing quickly enough that Athos had left them to it, choosing to focus on d'Artagnan instead.

Looking at them now, he realised that they had forgone the rules of épée for some sort of bastardised sabre technique. Their moves were sneaky and merciless, and they both had strange criss-cross patterns on their skin.

"Slide into the third movement," he called as he watched their attempt at a pattern, but it fell on deaf ears as Porthos deliberately smacked his épée down onto Aramis' bare arm and made him yelp.

A red welt joined the others, and Athos realised that they had been really going for each other.

And snickering whilst they did it.

"Too hard, Porthos!" Aramis grumbled as he fell back into the original stance, his form picture perfect. Aramis stood like a master, his feet in the right places, his spine straight and his jaw lifted. He was a flawless silhouette to Athos' trained eye.

Porthos, however, had feet that knew no bounds, and yet he was lightning fast with his épée. In a true spar, Aramis would win simply because Porthos would be disqualified for footwork, but no one could deny that Porthos wielded the weapon like it was an extension of his arm.

They noticed his attention and preened, so he said, "Aramis has the stance, Porthos the skill; you need to swap tricks."

Porthos grinned lewdly, his smile bright enough to part clouds. "Hear that, Aramis? Athos wants me to teach you."

"_Please,_" Aramis drawled, voice silky smooth and self-assured, "You'll be learning from me."

"Yeah? You wanna bet?"

"Try me," Aramis dared, and laughed when he had to only take a single step to escape Porthos' reckless lunge.

Athos hid his smile and pointed at Aramis' feet to d'Artagnan. "See how Aramis moves? By returning to the right placement, he only ever needs to take one step in and out."

Aramis turned to smirk at him, neatly side-stepping another of Porthos' lunges. It was an arrogant smile, and arrogance was a great man's downfall.

Even if it did look sinfully good on Aramis.

"Of course," Athos continued as he turned on one heel and raised his épée's point to face Aramis, "Stance is nothing without skill."

"Is that slander, Athos?" Aramis asked, and Athos felt the challenge like predator's growl along his spine, as if a fleet-footed cat had run claws across his skin. It tightened his muscles and quickened his breath, but he managed to nod and slightly tilt his weapon upwards.

He would not fall prey to Aramis' charms, not with an épée in his hand.

Not on the courts, anyway; here, he was king.

Aramis clinked his épée along Athos', and blinked when Athos took only half a step and a twist of his wrist to gently flick across the tanned length of neck that he had the strangest urge to bite.

Porthos chuckled tauntingly, so Athos stepped across one foot and swiped for Porthos' legs in one smooth move, catching d'Artagnan's wrist as he pulled back.

"And you are all nothing without practice and _rules_," he said idly, and stumbled backwards with a laugh when they glanced at each other and then advanced on him. "Gentlemen, please, it's customary to bow."

D'Artagnan scoffed at him, as if he was an idiot to suggest such a tactic, but Aramis swept into a graceful bow immediately, his épée perfectly flourished like a glorious conquistador.

Athos matched it and, with the slightest glimmer from under his eyelashes, waited until Porthos and d'Artagnan looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

He ran.

* * *

He refused to call it hiding, it _wasn't_ hiding per se, but he was certainly holding his laboured breath when they came darting after him and barrelled past his nook.

"What makes you think he'd come here?" d'Artagnan panted, glee a high-pitched note in his voice.

"Athos is as predictable as a cat, he might roam occasionally, but he always returns to where he knows," Aramis murmured as he typed the code in and they scampered inside the building, leaving Athos to stare at nothing for a while, trying to examine the little burst of warmth in his chest at those focused words, at d'Artagnan's knowledgeable little laugh.

They knew him so well.

He knew that, of course, he knew it from how they stayed up with him until he was almost dropping from tiredness before ferrying him to his bed, and how sometimes they would collapse alongside him and keep the nightmares at bay.

He knew from how Aramis used the ache d'Artagnan had caused in his jaw as an excuse to give him a hug, and how Porthos found him staring at a creased photo and flourished a crumpled bag from the old sweet shop on the other side of London.

They almost knew him better than he knew himself, but not quite. How could they when he had secrets held so close to his heart that revealing them might break him?

Besides, they didn't know where he was going next.

He slid out from behind the frosted trees and headed back for the practice courts, knowing that they would return eventually – because he knew them just as well – and then he could trick them into more training.

They were doing well, the three of them were, they had an aptitude as if they were meant to wield weapons and challenge people to duels.

He should have expected it really, Aramis was quick and graceful, and Porthos was like a tiger, quiet and deadly, and capable of sneaking up on you even when you thought you were safe.

So he probably also should have expected to take a few steps into the building and hear a surprisingly quiet footfall and a slink of steel.

Okay, so perhaps they did him know him pretty damn well.

He only wished that he hadn't expected the burst of warmth flaring into something dangerously close to heat. There was a prickle along his neck, and he imagined it was the same one that prey felt when it was being stalked.

The prickle felt _good._

He tamped it down, as he always did, and turned on the spot to face intimidation given human form, and it was breath-catching.

"Knew you'd come back," Porthos chuckled, and it was low and inviting – except that it _wasn't_, he just kept reading it that way, the _wrong _way, and he really needed to stop before he did something utterly insane.

But Porthos was stunning at the worst of times, and here, with his shirt sleeves rucked around his biceps and his grin like that of a supernova, he was gorgeous.

Athos resisted the urge to smack his head against the closest wall.

Oblivious to the battle taking place in Athos' head, Porthos lazily twirled his épée, the light catching every twist and giving him a menacing quality as he advanced.

Athos stood his ground but let his hand fall to his hip, accepting the threatening challenge in the only way he knew how – his fingers clenching slowly on his specially designed swept hilt.

Porthos watched raptly. "Why's yours different from ours?"

Athos didn't need to look at his épée to know what the differences were; he could draw it from memory so often had he traced his fingertips over the curves, his palm clasping the battered jewel in the heft. "When you've developed a style, you can design yours."

"Yeah?" Porthos asked, completely missing the accidental husky note to Athos' voice as he examined his own épée. Porthos' stance was still all wrong, but he held the weapon like it was a broadsword, capable of cleaving through targets, like a knight of old. "Think I want one with that cup 'ilt, cover my hand. Aramis kept sneakin' 'its on my knuckles."

Athos felt his mouth curve even as his heartbeat thundered in his ears. "He knows how you fight."

Porthos shrugged with a smile. "He's watched often enough, you both 'ave."

"I have never asked you to punch someone on my behalf, _mon ami,_" he pointed out dryly. "I am very capable of doing so myself, and have done."

Not that he hadn't enjoyed Porthos' enthusiastic vigour whenever someone was a little too touchy with Aramis, because the protective fire that blazed in his dark eyes was so very captivating.

If Porthos had to be placed in a sport that he would thrive in, boxing or wrestling would be his forte. He stood like a melee fighter, the huge muscles in his arms and legs tight with the confidence of punching the lights out of anything. He definitely floated like a butterfly and stung like a lorry filled with bees.

"No, true, you don't," Porthos agreed a little too easily for Athos' liking. "You c'n defend yourself, that right?"

"Yes?" He didn't know why he made it sound like a question, but it had something to do with the way Porthos took a step forward, a very intimidating step forward.

"Don't need anyone to 'elp you?" Porthos asked, and there was a wicked glint in his eye that Athos wished didn't make his blood heat. Threats just sounded so deliciously _rough _coming from Porthos' throat.

"No?" Another question, and as he said it, he took a step backward, losing ground, losing face, and bumped into someone else.

"Hello, _mon cher_," Aramis purred against his ear, breath hot and chest hotter against Athos' back.

His mind blanked with uncontrollable lust.

"_Putain_!" He tried to jerk away in surprise, but Aramis' épée came up to rest across his chest, holding him firmly against his captivating captor. "Aramis," it was verging on more of a hoarse plea than an order, but his breathing was suddenly shallow and all he could think about was what he had done that morning.

Alone, in his bed, mind awash with thoughts of the three of them.

He had told himself that this would be the last time, that it would finally clear his bloodstream of this ridiculous, unexplainable, completely unwanted _addiction._

He hated that word.

"Thought you didn't need 'elp, Athos?" Porthos chuckled, and it was dark and teasing and Athos had to hold himself back from shuddering at the sound of it.

Porthos took another step towards him and Athos instinctively rolled back on his heels. For the briefest of moments, he brushed against Aramis' hips, and his whole body jolted with heat.

The addiction had him, and it wasn't letting go, it never did.

It never, ever did.

Panic overcame him and he tore from Aramis' grip, chest heaving with agonised breaths, desire clenching every tendon.

It had never been this bad before, never this strong – but then they had never tag-team sneaked up on him before. He had never had one at his back and the other advancing upon him as every thought spiralled downwards.

Ever so literally.

Fuck, he was such an idiot, why couldn't he follow his own advice?

"Easy." Porthos' hand landed on his shoulder, dragging him back to reality. "We're just playin'."

Aramis' head was tilted to the side, perception a glitter in eyes that seemed totally overtaken by pupils. "Just a little game, _mon cher._"

Those lyrical words were like a fresh buffet of desire, and when he heard the far door clatter open and d'Artagnan's irritated grumble, he could have hugged the boy in stark relief.

"Not more sparring, _please._"

Athos shrugged Porthos' hand off of his shoulder and ignored the look that he shared with Aramis – a furrowed brow and a silent question that he couldn't read.

He needed to act normal, because as much as he knew that every time they touched him, he lost a bit of himself to the storm, he also craved it with every breath in his body. Like an addict who knew he was hurting himself but did it anyway.

His eyes almost closed in defeat, but confronted with d'Artagnan's petulance and his heartbeat finally calming, he grounded himself by clamping his épée's hilt until it hurt, the patterned pain familiar and calming.

This, he knew this.

He breathed a sigh that settled him, felt his fencer's grace flow through his bones, and forced every single traitorous feeling aside. "Do you want to look incompetent tomorrow?"

D'Artagnan pouted but Porthos scoffed, "In front of who? No one knows how to fence."

Athos managed to meet Porthos' slightly irritated gaze with simple nonchalance. "We're in England, Porthos, fencing isn't _that _uncommon."

"Right, 'cause we're totally Eton and Harrow right now," Porthos said sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he named two prestigious schools.

Aramis perked up from his casual lean against Porthos' side. "Are strawberries in season yet? I want Eton Mess."

"It's September," he remarked wryly. D'Artagnan looked between them, confused, but thankfully only by the reference and not the colour that Athos was sure still stained his cheeks. "Eton Mess? It's meringue, strawberries, and cream. I introduced the recipe to Aramis and it's his new favourite thing."

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis in impressed astonishment. "You make it?"

Aramis inclined his head in humble admission, but Porthos grinned proudly and hooked him around the shoulder. "Aramis s'the best baker in the world!"

"I try my best with what we have," Aramis said modestly.

"What he tries is always remarkable," Athos explained, easy with praising Aramis from afar rather than pressed against his chest. "What we have is a kitchen in the middle of a busy dorm room that can smell cake from miles away."

"It's true," Aramis sighed forlornly, as if every baked creation was his precious baby. "They're like sharks and blood, but with sugar."

"Can I try some?" D'Artagnan asked curiously, and Aramis leaned forward to flick him fondly with his épée.

"Shark."

When d'Artagnan laughed sheepishly, Athos smirked, eternally grateful that he could do so without letting anything slip. He knew what he needed, he needed time alone, he needed to rebuild his shields and _not _think about them.

Except that he knew the moment he disappeared into his room, all he would want to do is walk out of it again, to surround himself with their energy like tantalising torture.

"Come, gentlemen," he called instead, focusing on the one thing that could take his mind off of everything, as it had for all of his life. "Spar."

It worked, his head filled with patterns and tactics, almost forgotten tricks that he passed onto d'Artagnan. And if he sometimes found his eyes slipping to the side to see the laughing pair, and he was admiring far more _form _than was necessary, he told himself that he was checking for flaws.

There weren't as many as he had hoped.

The pair of them bickered good-naturedly over skills that night, d'Artagnan being dragged in to judge when Athos was lost to his thoughts and required a nudge on the knee to come back to them.

As if they were ever far from his mind.

When they deposited him at his bedroom, feeling their concerned smiles on him as he closed his door, arms tired and brain exhausted from trying to _not _think all afternoon, he realised that he had to do it all again tomorrow.

"Why," he mumbled to himself as he fell face-first into his bed, absolutely knackered, "Why did I think that this would be a good idea?"

Still, at least they would have Constance's creations to try on tomorrow, and whatever it was that she and Aramis had put together.

The image of Aramis and Porthos in fencing gear flickered through his mind, of Aramis at his back and Porthos at his front, of being pinned between them and _fuck_, he couldn't do this again, he couldn't touch himself to thought of them again.

_Sleep,_ he ordered himself.

His body didn't listen.

* * *

**AN: **Thank you for reading! I also have a Tumblr account (ComeHitherAshes) which posts ficlets, updates, and gifs, where I take prompts and chatter with everyone, pop by!


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **_Times change, and we change with them._ Why a Latin adage? Because I imagine Athos also sees time like a river, always in flux and prone to sudden diversions.

Some artistic licencing with the gear, imagine black Dry Fibre versions of their canon jackets, I love Athos' buttons too much to change them (he's like a regency miss with hundred-button shoes). Triggers for drinking and road-traffic accidents.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"Hey there cutes, put on your dancin' boots,  
And come dance with me.  
Come dance with me, what an evenin' for some Terpsichore.

Pretty face, I know a swingin' place,  
Come on, dance with me.

Romance with me on a crowded floor,  
And while the rhythm swings,  
What lovely things I'll be sayin'.

'Cause what is dancin' but makin' love,  
Set to music...playin'?"

- Frank Sinatra, _'Come Dance With Me_'

* * *

"No."

"Athos," Aramis sighed exasperatedly, "You haven't even seen them."

"I don't need to see them, the answer is no."

Aramis rolled his eyes and continued ripping the box open with joyful abandon, tape and cardboard fluttering around the changing room. The four of them had run over after Aramis had appeared at breakfast with two enticing boxes, both with a '_love, Constance_' scribbled on the side.

"You weren't asked, this is what you were given." Aramis' self-assured smile told him that the next thing that he said would be the clincher, "And Treville says that they're appropriate."

"Fucking Hell," he muttered, and automatically ducked before he realised that Constance wasn't there to tell him off for swearing – she was quick with that reprimanding palm. Straightening, he glowered at the contents that Aramis was rooting around in with a smug grin on his face. "It's just not right. Fencing is like Wimbledon, our gear should be white."

Aramis pulled out some ridiculously tight black trousers in the Dry Fibre fabric that Constance must have sourced for them – another sign that he was screwed into accepting this. Aramis held them against his legs delightedly. "Nonsense, have you seen Roger Federer at the US Open? Black is _so _good."

Porthos raised a dubious eyebrow. "You based our gear off of your tennis crush?"

Aramis scoffed gently, "Would I do that?"

"Yes," they both said, and even d'Artagnan nodded – the only difference was, the boy actually looked quite excited, whereas he and Porthos were decidedly unimpressed.

Aramis caught their doubtful expressions with a glare. "Oh ye of little faith, just wait here." He disappeared into the stalls connected to the changing rooms, and Athos blinked in confusion. Aramis was in no way a prude, he was quite happy to get naked at the drop of a hat – and sometimes the hat was part of it – but then Athos realised that they had company.

Aramis wasn't risking d'Artagnan's innocent sensibilities, unfortunately.

No, not unfortunately. It was a _good _thing, he couldn't be dealing with the seductive line of Aramis' backside today, not when he had to start try-outs in an hour and act like some sort of responsible adult for his team.

Why had he ever thought that this was a good idea?

"I've got a bad feelin' about this," Porthos muttered, keeping his voice low as d'Artagnan dived into the box to look for his own gear.

Athos tipped his head against the wall. "You agree that it will look terrible?"

"Nah," Porthos shook his head, his eyes trained on the doorway that Aramis had vanished through. "I think it's gonna look amazin'."

Athos frowned in confusion at that strange statement. "It won't, fencing has _rules_, I'm sure it must be against some, somewhere. Besides, Aramis hates black-"

Athos' words choked in his throat as Aramis walked, stalked, _prowled _back into the room, an athletic shirt on and those sinfully tight trousers clinging to his legs. That line he had insisted upon really did perfectly accentuate his ass – and Athos knew he really shouldn't be noticing that.

Aramis looked utterly gorgeous and Athos' mouth had lost any faint hope of moisture.

"I think they're quite flattering, really," Aramis said dryly, and held his palm out to Athos.

It took an embarrassing amount of time for him to realise that he wanted his épée. "Oh, right," he stuttered, and tossed it over. Aramis caught it easily, something wonderful taking over his body as it smoothed out.

Whether it was instinct or because Aramis was simply born to wield a sword, his wrist loosened and he swirled the hilt, sending the slash of steel singing through the air.

He looked marvellous, like a Spanish conquistador that looked fully intent on plundering as many ships as he could possibly find.

"Okay," Porthos said when the silence had gone on a little too long. "Black is good."

"Agreed," he said numbly, and Aramis preened under their attention like the pretty peacock that he was. Athos cleared his throat, trying to gain some semblance of sanity, and asked hoarsely, "What about jackets?"

"Ah, the _pièce de résistance_," Aramis sang with a devastatingly proud smile. He called their names out as he examined the other box and threw them a package each. More black, more of that same material, but picked out with silver accoutrements, bright zips and buckles, perfect companions to the polished épées.

Athos tore the plastic when something colourful caught his eye, and laughed in surprise when his fingers found delicate thread. It was a powder-blue crest, the same shape as the college's but with a quill in the middle, and framing the bottom half were three épée hilts.

"Aramis," he asked wonderingly, "Did you design this?"

"The idea was mine, but I had some help with the drawing," Aramis ended teasingly and Athos noticed that it was aimed at Porthos, and Porthos was blushing like he had never seen before.

Actually, he hadn't even known that Porthos _could _blush, he was always far too steady for silly things like embarrassment.

"Was just a sketch," Porthos said sheepishly, fingers absent-mindedly fiddling with the black toggles that stretched across to the right side of his jacket.

Athos looked down at his own jacket and realised that it was different, his had little silver buttons cascading down the side fastening, Aramis' had wider toggles that seemed far easier for him to leave his jacket half open (_quelle surprise_), d'Artagnan's only had a few silver buttons, and they all had the crest emblazoned on the right shoulder.

It was personalised to such an affectionate level that Athos wasn't quite sure what to say.

"These," he said softly, running a gentle hand over the three hilts and knowing it was _them_, it signified the three of them, and he adored it, "are amazing."

"They're awesome!" d'Artagnan cried, shrugging his jacket on immediately, which was when Athos saw the powder-blue lining on the inside. It flashed brightly as d'Artagnan swung it on, and Athos had to smirk at Aramis.

"Couldn't keep it wholly sombre, no?"

"Of course not, _mon cher_," Aramis laughed, even as he beamed in pleasure at the overwhelmingly positive response and struck a pose.

"Mine better not be as tight as yours, Aramis," Porthos grumbled uncertainly, hand falling to the waistband of his jeans to readjust. "I need more space, if ya know what I'm sayin'."

"Why, Porthos, as if I would risk your discomfort so," Aramis purred, and a dirty grin split Porthos' face. It was no different to their usual banter, nor was the lingering glance Porthos gave as Aramis turned to admire himself in the mirror.

No one could deny Porthos that, Aramis was like a fine work of art, he needed to be admired. Aramis used recognition like oxygen, without it, he might fade away.

They were doing Aramis a _favour _by admiring him.

Athos would have let his head sink into his hands at his own idiocy if d'Artagnan hadn't been looking too, and he used that as fuel for his theory.

Although, he would have put a large amount of money on d'Artagnan not thinking about peeling that gear off of Aramis' slender form. Which sort of separated the men from the boys, didn't it?

Why couldn't he have stuck to smoking? At least that was a bad habit he could get away with.

"Alright, gimme a minute," Porthos sighed, and took his bundles into the stalls after a tiny frown at d'Artagnan's gleeful form. The boy was twirling in front of the mirror, smoothing his hands reverently down the special fabric and over the crest.

"A quill for the newspaper?" d'Artagnan asked, and Aramis' nod evoked a smirk from Athos.

"Newspapers and poets," he clarified dryly, and Aramis slid him an amused glance. "Treville will claim we're forming a monopoly."

"Good, you run it best, Athos," Porthos called as he walked out of the stalls, fencing t-shirt snug across his chest and around his biceps, jacket dangling from his fingers. "Is this too tight?"

"No," he and Aramis both said immediately, even though there was a tiny chance that it might have been. It slicked over Porthos' muscles like a second skin, as if it hugged him.

"Is it comfortable?" Aramis asked, and when Porthos nodded with a rueful grin, Aramis shrugged happily and ran a hand across Porthos' collarbone. "That's all that matters."

Athos chuckled when he realised Aramis' voice had dropped a little, and took some small comfort in not being the only one affected by this damn gear.

Of course, he really shouldn't be.

"Can't fault Constance," Porthos admitted, "She's done a blinder with these measurements, but I'm puttin' my jeans back on for now."

D'Artagnan shrugged, lifting his chin as he looked into the mirror – good Lord, the boy was picking up posing tips from Aramis. "They're black, it'll probably look quite good with the jacket."

Aramis stilled, and Athos noticed it because he had too, and he looked up to see Porthos weighing his head from side to side. "Good point."

"You should try it," Aramis said nonchalantly, and Athos had to hold himself back from eagerly echoing it, even as he told himself to shut up, _shut up._

Porthos chucked Aramis on the chin with a muttered, "Watch it," and Aramis held his hands up in a '_look how innocent I am_' gesture before joining Athos on the bench, his shoulder a warm weight through Athos' shirt.

"Will you at least try them for me, Athos, please?" Aramis asked on a plaintive sigh, and Athos raised a deliberative eyebrow.

He had been about to anyway, of course he had, because Aramis had gone to so much trouble and he couldn't deny Aramis anything, not when he looked at him from under his eyelashes and gave him a nervous smile.

"_Terreur_," he murmured, smirking when Aramis' smile immediately turned sly. "Fine, but you owe me."

"Is that so?" Aramis' voice lowered, his gaze jumping to an oblivious d'Artagnan and back again so that the boy didn't get the wrong idea.

Because he was teasing, Aramis was _teasing_, but every word felt like a caress along Athos' senses. It was so very difficult to meet that naturally heated expression and not join in the game, not engage in the flirtatious banter that Aramis engaged _everyone _in.

He couldn't, because that wasn't what he did, he didn't _flirt_, he wasn't _tactile_, he didn't even swing that way.

He didn't know what he was anymore, he had been broken apart and put together again so many times that he didn't even know himself. He was a vassal of his parents' invention, it was almost like inhabiting a stranger's body.

Except that this body burned for the one pressed against him.

Aramis rose like a cat that had scented prey and his voice was a purr, "Por-_thos_."

And there was the other body that his burned for, and with it was a guilt so consuming that Athos had to fight back a shiver. They were his best friends, and he hated himself for slowly falling in love with _both _of them, betrayal blaring in time with his quickened heart.

"What?" Porthos asked distractedly as he walked in, tugging his new jacket around his neck. D'Artagnan's off the cuff comment was the understatement of the century, Porthos in his fencing jacket and jeans looked better than good, he looked positively sinful.

Porthos always stood like he was utterly sure of himself, but comfortable in his dark jeans and with the fitting black jacket hugging his broad shoulders, he looked like he could kick your ass without breaking a sweat.

And he'd enjoy every single second of it.

Aramis picked a speck of something off of Porthos' arm and Porthos unconsciously leaned into the touch as he resettled his jacket.

Athos looked at the pair of them, at the pretty picture they made and the way they made his pulse heat. He ignored it, he focused on the gear, the movement it would allow them.

Mostly he told himself over and over again that he was his parents' son, a la Fére.

Whether he wanted to be or not.

Aramis stood at Porthos' back, hands resting on his shoulders as they admired themselves in the mirror, and Athos forced his lineage through his head a hundred times over.

"You look like you're in a gang," d'Artagnan exclaimed excitedly.

Athos finally let his head find his hands. "You're going to make me hate fencing."

* * *

"I hate fencing."

Porthos grinned at him, exertion a flush on his cheeks that suited him far too well. "Sure you do."

They had been running through potential recruits all afternoon, sending the decent ones into Athos' experienced hands, where he had put them through their paces and signed a few up.

It should have been easy, he hadn't yet met his match, but glancing up from a bout to see two agile shadows either sparring with each other or vetting another candidate was almost enough to have Athos skipping his steps.

He shook his head out of a daydream that he really didn't have time for, and rested his épée over his shoulders with a sigh. "How many left?"

Aramis flicked through the signing sheet with one hand, the other pushing through enticingly sweaty curls. "A handful, we're still getting walk-ins though."

Athos groaned exhaustedly, mumbling a thank you when Porthos shifted to let him lean against solid muscle. His cheek pressed against the fencing society's crest and he heaved a steadying breath, feeling responsibility like a slightly cloying fog around his face.

He had started this, now he had to finish it.

He looked up at the ready and waiting fencers, helmets on and fidgeting to get started. "Any with prior experience?"

Aramis hummed in agreement, "One, just walked in, says here she's a bit rusty, mind."

Just what he wanted, an easy distraction. "Perfect, you three can sort out the rest, right?"

Porthos nodded, his palm returning to his épée's hilt again, a comforting gesture. "We got it sorted, go an' be king, Athos."

Athos hid his smile, slipped his helmet down, and murmured, "That's 'captain' to you."

Porthos' chuckle seemed to stroke up his back when he walked off, and he only just caught Aramis' pleased little hum as he took up position and gestured for someone to step forward.

The newcomer was in recruiting gear – white and grey that seemed very boring now that Athos had noticed the way muscles bulged under black – but it meant that he wouldn't be tested. Had he been confronted with personalised gear and a designed hilt, he might have taken a moment to prepare himself. Instead, he simply took a breath and raised his épée.

He was wrong.

She attacked like lightning, smooth and quick and never seeming to strike in the same place twice. He was three points down before he realised his signature move was being used against him.

Athos felt eyes on him, two pairs that seemed to burn a little hotter than they should, and inside, he snarled indignantly. Forgotten la Fére pride reared its head and fuelled his movements until he spun that much faster, lunged that much harder, and he pushed his fiery aggressor back.

He scored one point past even and then dragged his helmet off, breathing heavily and determined to know _exactly _where they had learned that particular little wrist trick, the one he had been convinced he had learned from a very secretive master.

He felt his pride like a roar, like paws across his shoulders. He was Athos de la Fére, editor of the college newspaper and captain of the fencing team, and then, in one graceful movement that his brain found feverishly familiar, blonde curls tumbled around a slim neck, and everything he now was simply fell away.

Something old and forgotten flared in his stomach, a deep-seated affection that had his jaw almost dropping. "Ninon?" His smile was completely surprised when he recognised sky-blue eyes and almost porcelain skin that would show every single suck mark.

"Athos!" she replied gleefully, her pretty features lit up with an inner glow that she always seemed to have. "What are you doing here?"

It felt ridiculously familiar to tug on her extended hand, dropping his helmet to the ground so that he could kiss her cheek and hold her close. It felt like holding a memory, a sweet and delightful one, and he had so few of those.

How long had it been, three years? Since before Thomas, before the hospital visits and sickening smiles, before _that, _and _her, _and _them._

"I've- I've been here for two years," he managed to get out around his astonishment, something desperately needy in him not wanting to let her go.

Her fingers curled around his. "You've been here for two years and didn't come to see me?" she asked in faux-horror, but there was a genuine thread of disappointment there that had him wincing guiltily.

He had thought about it, of course he had, but Ninon knew… _so much._

"Things.. didn't work out." He felt his stomach twist when she glanced at his hand, thankfully hidden by his gloves.

Ninon's expression clouded and he could see the turmoil on her face, whether to be pleased for him or not. So much had happened, he wasn't sure if they knew each other like they used to.

The notion hurt.

But then she lifted a finger to touch his jaw, just for a second, and murmured, "_Omnia mutantur._"

The words hit him like a feather-covered brick and for a moment he was a child again, hiding in the garden with a golden-haired imp as they taught themselves Latin. Instinctively, he completed the line, "_Nos et mutamur in illis._"

It was the last thing they had said to each other before he had returned to Paris for what had seemed like a death sentence, for his future had awaited him there, and he had detested every aspect of it.

It _had_ been a death sentence, but not for him.

Ninon squeezed his fingers, bringing him back to himself, her smile a small beacon on his horizon. "Are you staying at the house?" Ninon asked brightly, and Athos felt his throat close up in anxiety.

His surroundings reasserted themselves, the idle chatter of students, the clink of épées, the almost painful twin gazes from his two best friends, he had to be _careful_.

Athos felt his hands shake, but they were safe in Ninon's, and he could take a breath. "No, no, I'm on campus."

"Oh," she said in surprise, and followed his darting glance to the side-lines. She couldn't help but notice how his breath caught at a wide-eyed Aramis and Porthos. Ninon hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. "Well, you should come by, my parents would love to see you. I'm sure they've forgiven you for the vase."

Athos surprised himself by snorting in amusement. "Please, how you pinned that on me, I will never know."

"Because I'm sweeter than you," she teased, and Athos' laugh eased a tightness in his chest. It felt so wonderfully natural to raise an eyebrow at her and for her to wink, mischief a sparkle in her perceptive eyes.

His smile felt genuine when it stayed. "Well, I would love for you to sign up, we need a female presence, and you evidently haven't forgotten _everything _I taught you," he said dryly, feeling her natural light like a balm across his soul.

Her lip quirked up and then she laughed, light and airy. "Thank you, but no." He frowned and resisted the urge to lean on his épée like a schoolboy, his gaze questioning. "I just wanted to see if I still had it," she said with a shrug. "Evidently, I have."

He felt his mouth curve further. "I see you're just as modest as ever."

"It's nice when some things don't change, isn't it?"

Apprehension fluttered in his chest but her laugh soothed it until he could answer honestly, "Yes."

Ninon's attention drifted to Aramis and Porthos again, who were still staring outright. A frown crossed her brow for the briefest of moments and then she tugged at his arm. "Fancy meeting up for a drink later?"

"Yes," he said immediately, and ducked his head when she smiled. "It's a celebratory night for the society so we're heading out to Regent Street, you should come."

Her eyes twinkled. "Even though I'm not on the team?"

"Even though," he said, feeling a smile curve at his lips. Ninon tilted her head at him and laughed softly before placing a soft hand over his heart.

It had been their version of a hug when he had been far more tactilely averse, and he almost stumbled underneath it.

She leaned in to kiss his cheek, the scent of champagne and Chanel bringing back so many old memories. "_Á ce soir_, Athos."

"_Adieu, ma cherie_," he said under his breath as she wandered off, seeming to take the light with her, and he felt bereft without it.

D'Artagnan broke into his startled reverie. "Who was that?"

Athos blinked, shaking his head in confusion when he realised that nearly everyone had gone, the remnants filtering out and the sign in sheet completed.

Time always seemed to flow strangely when Ninon was around.

"Ninon's an old friend," he murmured distractedly, his head still caught up in the drift of an hourglass.

"You let her touch you," Aramis remarked in quiet shock.

Athos felt humour tug at his cheeks. "It's what she does, she's like you," he commented in surprise, and didn't know why Aramis inhaled sharply.

Porthos frowned at Aramis, but then turned it on him and as he asked, "What'd she say that made you look like your world was endin'?"

"Or starting," Aramis added quietly.

He still felt Ninon's fingers on his jaw, on his hand, on his chest, so he smiled a little cryptically. "That, gentlemen, is none of your business." When they both scowled, he shrugged. "It was Latin."

Aramis' scowl deepened as d'Artagnan laughed, "Finally, a language Aramis doesn't know."

Athos raised an eyebrow, amused by Aramis' irritation, and teased, "_Bonum punctum, amicis meis."_

"It's a root language, I can translate well enough," Aramis snapped, and looked as if he wanted to say more but then Porthos nodded jerkily over their shoulders.

Treville had come down from his hidden perch in the viewing balcony, his expression amused as he reached for Aramis' clipboard. "Why didn't you sign up Ninon de Larroque?" Treville's surprise was evident as he flicked through the list of names. "She would've been a wonderful addition."

"I tried, she declined," he said with a shrug, and wasn't sure why Aramis had a small, dark smile on his face.

"Athos," Treville sighed, "You _need _more people, you can't just exclude-"

"Sir, no," Athos interrupted insistently, "I tried, I really did. I was the one that taught her how to fence."

There was a beat of silence where he could have sworn that he heard Porthos mutter a curse word under his breath, but when Treville looked up, he and Aramis were suspiciously quiet.

"Well," Treville conceded, returning to his notes. "You did a good job, then. Some adequate names here but see if you can't persuade her otherwise.

"I was already planning on it, sir," he said honestly and matched Treville's smirk, keen to get the team started. "How long do we have before the Guards are up and running?"

"A few days, maybe more if Louis doesn't spill the beans to Anne." Treville made a face at the blatant mutiny and then pinned d'Artagnan with a quelling stare. "Let that be a lesson to you, d'Artagnan, don't flirt with the enemy."

"Can you say that, sir?" d'Artagnan asked cheekily.

"Yes I can," Treville said, trying to hide his smile and failing, "And don't pick up any more tricks from these three, they're a bad influence."

The three of them scoffed and Athos was pleased to see that Porthos and Aramis had gotten over whatever strange affliction they had had.

It wasn't until they had bundled outside, fencing jackets on over their jeans and their épées holstered that Porthos started frowning again. "Who is she, Athos, why 'aven't we heard've 'er before?"

Athos took a deep breath and didn't even consider lying, he wasn't sure he could, anyway. He already kept something huge from them and it killed him, he couldn't hide anything else.

"I used to visit London as a child, Ninon lived a few doors down."

"What, you used to play in the street?" Porthos asked dubiously, and Athos was startled into a small laugh.

"No, of course not, but our parents rubbed shoulders and we were thrust together more often than not. We became friends."

"So we saw," Aramis said moodily, but brightened when Porthos glared at him. "She seems nice."

Athos looked between them in concern, feeling as if he was missing out on something important – and he was notorious for seeing _all_. "Is.. everything okay?"

"Course," Porthos insisted with a grin that seemed far more genuine than Aramis' had been. "Just surprised you ever 'ad friends before us."

Athos relaxed with a fond, slightly far-away smile. "She wouldn't have it any other way."

"Athos," Porthos asked carefully, his thumb rubbing a small circle along Aramis' wrist, "what exactly was she to you?"

Athos curled his hand as if he could still feel Ninon's there, her slim fingers entwined with his, her gentle palm over his heart. "She was my escape."

* * *

Athos wasn't quite on tenterhooks, waiting for Ninon, but it was a close-run thing.

Aramis had been pressed against his side for most of the evening, Porthos' protective gaze had never left them for long, but Athos barely noticed it – bar the usual difficult throb of his pulse at their proximity, clutching at a few beers to numb the lust.

The moment he saw blonde curls at the bar's door, he was out of Aramis' hold and across the room before Porthos could finish whatever growled remark he had been about to make.

"_Bonsoir, _Imp," he murmured, completely unable to hide the soft smile that curved his mouth at the sight of her.

Ninon beamed at him, a shimmering white cocktail dress glinting with the coloured lights from the dance floor. Her slight arm draped over his shoulder as she leaned in for a brief kiss on his cheek, and Athos inhaled her familiar scent greedily.

Greedy for things unsaid and things that hadn't passed.

"I hear congratulations are in order," she murmured as he led her to the bar, his palm at the small of her back almost on instinct. "Highest turn out for a club this year?"

"It's a society," he corrected immediately, smirking at her fond exasperation. "Thank you, it surprised me, too."

"_I'm _not surprised," she said archly, humour glittering in her smile, "not now that I've turned my ear to the ground."

Athos made the appropriate impressed noise that was expected of him. "Ah, the queen of secrets, are you not?"

"I can't help it, _dahling_, people just love telling me things!" she mimicked a supercilious friend of their parents, and snorted delicately. "Had I known that the eponymous title '_him_' was referring to you, I would have sought you out a while ago. My own fault, I suppose, for not mingling with the masses."

"You, not a social butterfly? I refuse to believe it," he said adamantly. Ninon's natural charm bewitched everyone, but it explained why he had never seen her around campus. "In what world am I given a title?"

"Aside from _editor _and _captain _and _one of them_, you mean?" she asked with a pert smile.

Athos felt as if a bucket of cold water had trickled down his spine. "One of them?" he repeated hoarsely.

Ninon hummed in agreement as she signalled the barman over. "Your little threesome, the two cute ones you're always with."

As Ninon engaged the enraptured barman in a drinks order, Athos took a shaky breath. His secret was safe, for a little while longer at least.

He chewed the tip of his tongue as Ninon unconsciously leaned into his space and he into hers, as they always did. He could tell her, he could tell Ninon, he could tell someone that wouldn't judge him, that wouldn't expect him to _do _anything about it.

She knew all too well about the pressures of family, even if she didn't know about, well, everything that had happened after her.

"I may as well make a good impression," Ninon said suddenly, and gave him a probing look. "What will your friends want?"

"Aside from you, if you buy them a drink?"

Her smile was surprisingly small, and he didn't know what that meant, so he simply gave her their last order. Ninon requisitioned a tray from her new admirer – the latest in a string – and waved Athos off when he offered to carry the drinks.

"I can manage, thank you," she said primly, so he simply gestured for her to go ahead of him, taking up the guard at her back. "Gentlemen- Constance!"

Constance appeared in a harried flash, something that might have been aggravation disappearing from her face when she saw Ninon, the two of them alike in glee.

Athos was there to accept the tray virtually thrust in his direction as Ninon and Constance hugged, the former précising the day, and the latter shooting a probing look in Athos' direction.

"Don't tell me you joined the society?" Constance asked, her smile still wide, and Athos wasn't the only one who was focusing on the slight tenseness of her jaw, d'Artagnan had only picked up on it when Aramis and Porthos had stopped muttering to squint at her.

Ninon rolled her eyes. "No, if I had enough time to run around in full-body garb and flash something pointy, I would have joined a convent."

Aramis' eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't say anything until Ninon started passing around the drinks that Athos was still diligently holding. "Thanks," his voice came out strangely, as if it was forced, and his smile wasn't quite as jaw-dropping as it usually was.

If Ninon noticed that anything was amiss, she didn't mention it, and instead came to stand at Athos' side, bestowing him with a golden gleam when he automatically hooked an arm around her waist, as he would do for Aramis.

"How do you two know each other?" he asked when Constance wouldn't stop staring, and her observant blue eyes blinked a few times before she answered.

"Ninon signed up as one of my mannequins last year, I had no idea that you two knew each other."

Ninon giggled, and the sound of it made Athos smile, which made everyone else stare at him. "Athos and I are old friends, and that only because we had to spend every day of summer together. I didn't think I would see the day where he was in a _club_," Ninon gasped in mock-horror, earning a few laughs.

"And suddenly I remember why I made new friends," he murmured, and smirked at her good-natured scowl. "I believe they know of your name, but for reference, d'Artagnan is our newest recruit – do smile, d'Artagnan."

The boy dragged his attention from Constance to smile nervously, it turned into a grin when Ninon complimented a fencing move he had used earlier that morning. She deliberately gave him a sly look afterwards, knowing full well that Athos had taught them both that move.

"Imp," he murmured under his breath, and gestured opposite the circle, hoping his voice would stay steady, "and the two I couldn't do without, Aramis and Porthos. The former, my right hand, the latter, my left."

It earned him only shadows of the usual smiles, and that was when he realised that he wasn't quite in tune with his two best friends today. As if Ninon had encircled him in her glowing bubble, he basked in her light and was numb to their moods.

It was, he realised with a sickening start, quite a smart way to starve the addiction.

Replace one thing with another, as he always did, because he was too weak to do anything else. A scrap of memory, of that exact sentence, flittered through his brain.

His breathing stuttered, just one tiny skip of a pattern, and just as Porthos stepped forward with a frown, Ninon was already there to squeeze his fingers with her own, and he could breathe again.

Aramis stepped forward then, his palm seeming strangely protective on Porthos' bicep. "Aren't you meant to be warning me off of her?" Aramis asked indelicately, and Ninon ducked her head in amusement when Athos snorted.

"No, if you want to be played with by a pearlescent dragon, be my guest," he said it easily, holding Ninon's secret close to his heart where he would never let it show.

Porthos gave Ninon an appraising look, a grin appearing when Ninon peeked cheekily at him – bewitching anything in her path. "That's some recommendation, comin' from Athos, 'specially."

Ninon pouted prettily. "I'm afraid my reputation precedes me, isn't notoriety a chore?"

Porthos nudged a scowling Aramis on the shoulder. "Ask 'im, I'm the good one."

Ninon's laugh was completely indulgent, "I have no difficulty in believing that, Porthos, you're clearly an angel."

Porthos beamed at her, the picture of innocence and pleasure at being found angelic. Athos would have rolled his eyes if he hadn't been so overjoyed at seeing Ninon fit in with them, at finally seeing Porthos _smile _after being without it for hours.

He hadn't realised he had missed it until he had seen it again, and it loosened a knot in Athos' stomach.

Except that Aramis was still scowling, and it was deepening, dark furrows on his brow and something unhappy snapping in his eyes. Before Athos could ask what was wrong, Aramis was dragging Porthos to the dance-floor, and Athos felt that tell-tale terror in his chest again, felt himself lock down before he gave anything away.

They slot together so perfectly, the two of them. Porthos throwing Athos a despairing look until Aramis started to sway against him, and then they were both lost to the rhythm, a rhythm that Athos shouldn't want but could feel like a wave against his skin, as if he danced with them.

But Athos didn't dance.

To watch hurt just as it much as it pleasured, and sometimes, when Aramis grinned at Porthos over his shoulder, it hurt so much that Athos wanted to wince, wanted to knuckle the skin over his heart as if it were bruised.

He realised a beat too late that Ninon was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, and he ever-so carefully shrugged, as if he wasn't affected by the pair of them dancing, just as they weren't. "They aren't together."

"No?"

That did make him laugh, even if it was a little hoarse. "They're tactile, they even have me accepting hugs now."

Her eyes widened in an over-exaggerated fashion before narrowing slightly, mischief a fresh sparkle in their blue depths. "You won't be opposed to a dance then?"

"I don't-…" he trailed off when he felt d'Artagnan's attention on him, his face clearly saying _what the fuck is wrong with you, she's gorgeous, go dance with her_. He considered cuffing the boy around the head and telling him to mind his own business, but d'Artagnan's incredulity made Athos think.

What better way to prove his sexuality than by dancing with Ninon? It didn't mean anything anyway, as evidenced by Aramis and Porthos still dancing a little way away, Aramis was practically riding Porthos' leg, after all.

Clearly, it could just be between friends.

Long had he stood on the side-lines, not joining in but observing, and it confused him. Most of them didn't so much as dance – certainly not in the way of ballroom, as he had been taught – but merely grinded against one another.

He would have thought it a solely sexual thing had he not seen Aramis and Porthos do it, which meant that it was something that friends did, too.

Athos ignored the sharp stab of lust in his stomach and looked back to Ninon's thoughtful expression. "I would love to." Her smile took a moment in coming, but when it did, it was brilliant.

He didn't quite drag his feet, but it took him a while to get into the swing of things. He felt, rather than saw, the moment Aramis noticed him, like an intensity on the small of his back, and then it doubled and he knew Porthos had seen, too.

Athos knew tempo, he knew rhythm, so by all accounts he wasn't a bad dancer, he just didn't enjoy it. He met Aramis' gobsmacked gaze with an incredulous one of his own, trying to draw them over and commiserate – or congratulate – him.

It didn't happen, instead, Aramis began to dance again, not quite in time with the music, but his back pressed against Porthos' front until they were both moving, slow and seductive.

But they were watching him.

Athos would have flushed if such a thing wasn't beneath him, finding it hard to concentrate until Ninon turned in his arms, her spine against his chest, and he instinctively curved around her in a move he had seen Porthos do, his mouth dropping to place a kiss along her neck.

He only pulled back because he heard a commotion, and looked up in time to see Porthos trying to grab for Aramis' arm as he stormed off, some kind of anguish on both of their faces.

Athos frowned, wondering whether he should go after them, but he was dangerously tipsy and after having seen them dance, he was worried he might do something idiotic like admit that he was stupidly in love with them both, so he stayed in the protective bubble of Ninon's friendship.

He stayed and enjoyed another drink and another dance, and then two more, and then he and Ninon were sprawled in a booth, Ninon telling some story about their childhood that had d'Artagnan collapsed into giggles and Constance trying desperately not to laugh.

"Yes, thank you, Imp," Athos drawled dryly, "You're painting me such a wonderful picture."

"It's hardly my fault that you're as stiff as board, Athos," Ninon replied just as dryly, and he thought that she might be imitating him, "One would think you might make an excellent shield."

That set d'Artagnan off again, tears springing from his eyes as he snickered, completely uncaring of Athos' best scowl. Athos aimed it at Ninon instead. "Off with you, you've tainted my friends enough, tonight."

She pouted at him, but giggled when d'Artagnan nearly fell off of his chair, and leaned forwards to kiss him on the cheek, also uncaring of his scowl. "As it happens, I've just spotted a friend."

His smile was fond as she wandered into the crowd, and he wondered whether Ninon was single-handedly ruining his reputation. He looked back to see d'Artagnan and Constance's eyes upon him, one amused and the other… thoughtful.

"Yes?" he asked of Constance, who shook herself out of her thoughts and said nothing, busying herself with her glass and then disappearing to fetch another. It was probably a good thing she had gone, he wasn't sure he could pretend to be sober anymore.

If he was honest, he was as drunk as a skunk.

It was the mixing – his own fault, really. He'd had a glass of wine or two before coming out, and Aramis was always immediately onto spirits, and Porthos onto beers. It was only ever going to end in a cocktail of tears.

There were a few blissful moments of raucous silence, enough alcohol in his veins to find the pattern on the ceiling positively mesmerising, until Athos let himself focus on the one remaining occupant of the booth.

D'Artagnan seemed to be at a great war with himself, his youthful face screwed up in conflict, before suddenly blurting out, "D'you think Constance would date a first year?"

Athos peered blearily at the boy before patting the seat and summoning him over, dragging his slim shoulders under his arm to ensure he _really _listened to his sage advice.

"Let me- let me tell you sssomething about _life_, d'Artagnan," he slurred, and d'Artagnan nodded, eager for his wisdom. "Love is shtupid, it makes us idiots! It turns sssmart people shtupid, and people who really shouldn't be looking at someone's butt into someone that looks at butts."

The words had come out in a slurred rush, and he wasn't sure now whether he should have said them, nor spoken about butts, so he brushed over it all with a concise, "Do you understand?"

D'Artagnan nodded in deep concentration, and then said confusedly, "That didn't answer my question."

Athos frowned, trying to remember what the question was, and then said idly, "Constance'll probably be engaged by the end of the year."

D'Artagnan's boyish face opened up into one of desolate shock. "What?!"

Athos nodded, not quite remembering why he should shut up, and no one was there to tell him. "Never seen her like this before, think he's the, um, the, the _one_." He noticed the boy's worried expression and hastened, "Maybe you can have more than one one. Two ones. A pair of ones?" He trailed off to do some counting, and got distracted by the shocking emptiness of his glass.

Was this not supposed to be his celebratory party, where was everyone?

He suspiciously eyed d'Artagnan's full glass but decided that, judging by the anguished glimmer in the boy's eyes, he could do with that drink. "Drink that, s'good for you, m'just gonna get 'nother."

He sloped off before d'Artagnan could reply, his eyes squinting to try and find Aramis and Porthos. Or either of them, or both of them, anyone, really.

A friendly face would be nice, without anyone he knew nearby, it was starting to feel depressingly like he was drinking _alone_.

Inevitably and all too suddenly, his thoughts spiralled, his heart thumping into overdrive even as it felt like it had started to crack in his chest. He lifted a hand to his mouth to try and stifle his whimper, but his skin smelled like Ninon, and that was _before_, before _that_, and the _drinking_.

Athos started to wheeze, trying to get enough air into his lungs, but the air was too close and everything was too hot and he just needed to get outside.

He tumbled through a door, a fire exit if the faint alarm was any indication, but he ignored it in favour of sucking in huge, fresh lungfuls of air.

With every breath, his head spun more, the oxygen coupling with his blood-alcohol levels until he couldn't see straight and every lamppost was a delightfully golden blur.

He just wanted to find Aramis and Porthos, and maybe have a hug, he could pretend that he needed help walking home.

He didn't, of course, he was fine.

He just _really _wanted to see them.

He wanted Porthos' bright grin and Aramis' affectionate Spanish, he wanted to curl up between them and sleep off the alcohol, he wanted to wake up with Aramis' face in his neck and Porthos' arm thrown across chest to rest on Aramis' hip.

He _wanted_ them, to be with them, to be near them, he just _wanted_.

The ground beneath his feet shifted, his balance swaying as he stepped from pavement to road, from flagstones to tarmac, from safety to danger.

Athos turned slowly, reaching for the bar's stone wall but surprised to see it tilt further away even as it started to glow.

Athos turned slowly, and gravity pulled him sideways, he stumbled across a white line in the road, in the bright lights, in the way, always in the way.

Athos turned slowly, the car hitting his side, his cheek hitting gravel, his blood in his mouth, his ribs on fire, and the car drove away.

Athos turned slowly, and still he wanted them, even as the darkness closed in.

* * *

**AN: **Angst raining from on high! I'm finding it difficult to keep up with the updates on FF, so please come find me on AO3 if you want more (there's some explicit fics there, too)!


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